


The Warden-Commander

by dinosaurdragon



Series: The Way of the Story [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Awkwardness, Canon-Typical Violence, Fun with Halla, Letters, M/M, More Tags as Story Develops, Oh No What is Romance, POV First Person, Panic Attacks, Shapeshifting, Social Anxiety, Trans Character, Vigil's Keep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-27
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-05-03 16:41:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 55,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5298662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dinosaurdragon/pseuds/dinosaurdragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two months after the Battle of Denerim, Vir'era, Castor, Darrien, and Neria are sent to Vigil's Keep. The darkspawn haven't been retreating like they should, and it's up to the Grey Wardens to figure out why and stop them. Vir'era uses his fading memories to help as much as he can, but it grows harder by the day. Losing Theron and being thrust into a new place, a new role? That doesn't help at all.</p>
<p>But he'll have to make it work. There's too much he still needs to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Vigil's Keep

**Author's Note:**

> welcome back! i have a good five chapters of this already written, so there shouldn't be any delays even while I'm getting ready to graduate. (ONE WEEK OF SCHOOL LEFT. THEN I'M DONE. FOREVER.) might be a bit bumpy in December bc i'm going to disney to celebrate, but! point is i'll do my best. if all goes well, there won't be as long a wait (if there's any) between twc and Kirkwall, which will be the next installment. i'm not sure how long twc will be, though i'm estimating somewhere around 10 chapters.
> 
> also, if any of you are interested, i've started a series that i will update sporadically, called Missing Moments from TWOTS, which is just as it sounds: random scenes and shit that don't appear in this main series bc they, for whatever reason, didn't make the final cut. feel free to ask me to write something not seen here, though i make no promises of if i will write everything (i'll try). that series is not necessary for comprehension of TWotS, but it does provide some little background bits that may interest people.
> 
> that said! i now present to you, The Warden-Commander. enjoy responsibly :)

_Mia,_

_It’s been very busy here, too. Sorry, again, for taking a long time to send you a note. I don’t have much time now, but I thought I’d update you while I’ve a moment of down time._

_Most everyone’s gone off to do things now. Shale and Wynne have gone north to see if the Tevinter mages can maybe reverse what made her a golem. I will spare you the details of it; it’s not the most pleasant conversation. Needless to say, little Kerah should certainly not be informed._

_Castor has been named Warden-Commander of Ferelden. It was going to be Theron, but he refused and then left for Antiva before they could insist. In similar veins, Capella is now the Queen of Ferelden and has renounced her Grey Warden duties, and Anya has returned, temporarily she says, to Orzammar. No one else would be quite be capable of taking on such a title, either._

_In other news, those Wardens who have remained will be going to Vigil’s Keep soon to rebuild the order. We also have been asked to look into the recent string of darkspawn attacks. They’re far too organized. It’s troubling._

_I have to go now. I’ll be at Vigil’s Keep for your next letter._

_Vir’era, 9:31 Dragon_

 

Barely two months after the end of the Blight, the Grey Wardens had a new duty: Vigil’s Keep and the darkspawn. The Amaranthine Arling wasn’t far from Denerim, but a young woman named Mhairi guided us there regardless. That is, those of us who remained: myself, Castor (the new Warden-Commander), Darrien, and Neria. Everyone else had gone their separate ways or taken on new duties of their own.

Littlefoot was with me, of course, a faithful companion. I had been offered a rather impressive sum of gold to use him for breeding more mabari in Denerim, but he had become something of a therapy dog for me; I couldn’t let him go, even temporarily. Castor had accepted on Dracula’s behalf, anyways.

Mhairi didn’t say much on the way. She did ask us a bit about the Blight, about how we’d done what we did, but… that wasn’t something I specifically wanted to think about all the time. I was quiet most of the trip.

I should have expected the darkspawn; really, how had I forgotten? How had I thought anything else would happen? Vigil’s Keep was overrun with them, was positively leaking darkspawn as we approached. I could feel them, like ants crawling over my brain, beneath my skull. It was disgusting.

A soldier, running out alone and unarmed, begged for our help as the creatures tailed him. He didn’t need to; within moments, our weapons were drawn and we began to fight. We paused only long enough to ask if anyone was still alive.

“There was a mage behind me, I think,” he said, and Castor nodded.

We wasted no time. As we moved to the gates and into the keep proper, Castor commented on Mhairi’s combat ability, obviously amused. I didn’t hear what she said in response. I paid very little attention to her, if I’m honest. I knew she would die, and… well, I wasn’t a very sociable person to begin with. The last couple months had been taxing emotionally. I wasn’t prepared for pleasantries with anyone, let alone the soon-to-be dead.

I let myself slide back into the habit of fighting. I’d compare it to riding a bicycle or something, but I don’t know that it really was anything like that at all. For one, almost all of my companions had spread to the winds, even the other Wardens. For another, fighting just… isn’t like riding a bike. Maybe that’s obvious.

Retaking Vigil’s Keep was… mostly boring, if I’m honest. There were only three scenes worth noting, and at no time did any of us sustain major injury. (Which was a very good thing indeed, considering that both Wynne and Daylen were among those who’d gone off to mind their own business.) The first scene was meeting Anders.

We found him in a side room near the gates to the Keep’s interior. It looked a bit like a holding area for prisoners to me, but I was never the best at interpreting a room’s use. Many of them end up looking the same after a while. Why bother?

Back to Anders.

When we saw him, he was raining fire upon a pair of unfortunate darkspawn. They fell, their bodies joining those of a number of other darkspawn as well as a few Templars. Castor snickered at it all even as Anders shook his hands from the magic.

“What?” Anders said, turning to look at us. He glanced back at the bodies, coughed, and put his hands on his hips. “I didn’t do it. I mean, the darkspawn, yes, you saw that, but the others—I swear it wasn’t me.”

“…Anders?” Neria asked. I could just make out her narrowed eyes through her helmet as she peered at him.

“…No?” he tried.

“It is you!” She clapped her hands. “I thought you were dead after… well, I had heard you escaped before… but then with the Blight, I mean, it just didn’t seem likely, I suppose.”

“Wait,” Anders said. “Wait, no, I know that voice.” He stared at the armor, and Neria pulled her helmet off with flair. I heard Mhairi make a disbelieving noise, but it was covered mostly by Anders’ squawk. “Neria! Andraste’s knickers, I didn’t think I’d ever see you again!”

“I’m a Grey Warden,” she told him. “And this Warden-Commander Castor Cousland, and Warden Darrien Tabris, and Warden Vir’era Sabrae, and Littlefoot, and Mhairi. What are you doing here?”

He scrunched up his face. “Well, you see, the Templars caught up to me, again, so they were taking me back to the Tower. I don’t remember the details, but we stopped here for the night, and then darkspawn, and that brings us to now.”

Neria sobered. “How many times has it been?”

“Too many.” He sighed. “Probably get the iron for it this time.”

“Help us?”

He grinned. “Well, I am a sucker for a pretty face.”

Mhairi grumbled something indiscernible, smiled just a tad too brightly, and Castor clapped once. “Right! Shall we get on with the whole saving-the-Keep thing, then? At least it’s not all of Thedas this time.”

Darrien rolled his eyes and we moved onwards.

The second scene of importance happened not long after seeing Oghren again and receiving his determination to become a Grey Warden. We encountered the first of the talking darkspawn called the Withered. Hearing it speak was not unlike hearing a raven’s attempts at human speech. It was foreign, malformed, and frightening.

It kicked a soldier from the balcony and I flinched at the crush of his armor against the spikes I knew to be below. The Withered spoke, but its voice was too quiet to hear in the rain and the pounding of my heart. I pressed a hand to Littlefoot’s neck; wet fur stuck to my fingers immediately.

“Be taking this one gently,” I heard the Withered say as we drew nearer. “We are wishing no more death than is necessary.” It—or, more precisely, one of its comrades—had the seneschal on his knees, a blade to his throat.

“Necessary?” the seneschal growled. I couldn’t see his face where I stood, but I imagined he had a snarl. “As if your kind has done anything else!”

“You are thinking you know of our kind, human,” the Withered replied, and it was calm. Its voice made me feel as though phantom insects crawled over my skin. “It is understandable, but that will soon be changed.”

“Others will come, creature. They will stop you.”

Castor took this as our cue and stepped out into the light. I stayed to the back, near the shadows. They felt safer, somehow. Anders did the same. I couldn’t tell if he was preparing for a fight or simply observing. He looked ready to flee at a moment’s notice. I think he must have always lived like that.

“It seems your words be true.” The Withered turned to face us, its ugly, skeletal-mummified face a horror in the light. “More than you are guessing.”

“It is talking!” Anders said, apparently delighted with the discovery.

Oghren grunted and pounded a fist into his palm. “Well, let’s shut it up already!”

The seneschal looked at us from the corner of his eye. “Commander…”

“Capture the Grey Wardens. These others…” the Withered said, looking to our companions, “they may be killed.”

“Not today,” I heard Anders mutter. I don’t think he meant for me to hear. I tapped Littlefoot’s back, and we fought for our lives. Just another Tuesday, really.

By the time the fighting was over, the Withered having been run through on Darrien’s blade, I was suppressing the urge to find the nearest closet to hide for a few hours. I hadn’t been dealing well, all things considered, with the changes that came around after the end of the Blight. I had spent a lot of time in small, dark spaces just trying to remember how to breathe.

Littlefoot helped, of course. Always. As I felt myself begin to dissociate, to fail at comprehending reality beyond automatic movements, he was there. He nudged at my hands, gripped tightly around the staff I’d been gifted for my aid in the Blight, and I came back to myself. For a while, at least. That’s all that was needed at the moment; I just needed to keep myself together until I could safely sleep.

I think Castor noticed. I had never actually gotten around to telling anyone other than Theron just what it was that plagued me, but it hadn’t proved necessary. Everyone knew, on some level. The Cousland twins, though they were rarely likely to do much to directly help me, were certainly aware. (Castor had made sure that I could keep Littlefoot with me, even though he had been asked to send Dracula to a breeding pen to restore the mabari population.)

Now he nudged Neria towards me, and she put one arm through mine as if nothing was amiss. She began to chatter to me, telling me about the letter Leliana had sent her just before we left Denerim. I’d already heard about it, but that didn’t matter. I listened, grateful to have something familiar to concentrate on that required little input from me.

Castor talked with the seneschal (whose name was Varel, apparently) as we returned to the main grounds. A whole company was there, waiting for us already, with Alistair at the head. I listened to him banter briefly with Castor.

“How’s my sister?”

“Good! She wanted to come, but there was some weird thing. I don’t know. I just wanted to get out of the castle, really.”

“Aw, she scare you off already?”

“No! Maybe. Maker, I love her, but she is scary.”

“Just wait. She’ll get scarier.”

“I’m not sure how I’m supposed to respond to that.”

Then they were interrupted by the Templar lady who wanted to capture Anders. She called Anders dangerous, and Castor laughed. “Right,” he said, “I’m sure. Actually, I’m quite certain Vir’era is more dangerous than this guy, but don’t ask me.”

“He is an apostate!” she argued, paying (thankfully) no mind to me. Anders did send me a curious look, though. I kept my head down after that.

“Right, apostates, that’s bad, isn’t it?” Castor asked. The Templar fumed and ordered that Anders be relinquished. Castor sighed. “No, you know, I see that you have a point, since being a mage outside the Circle is illegal in Ferelden and most of Thedas, but I have a solution that should benefit everyone.”

“The proper solution is to give him to Templars for punishment,” she said.

“Oh, come off it. What’s your idea, Castor? Er, Warden-Commander,” Alistair said, correcting himself as he remembered that he was, in fact, here as the King.

“I’d like to invoke the Right of Conscription.”

The Templar gasped. “No!”

Alistair shrugged. “Well, I certainly can’t stop him. As a Grey Warden, it’s his right, after all. And he’s the Warden-Commander now, too, so that goes double, I think. Unless the First Warden is here and overrides his decision?”

“The First Warden is, in fact, still in Weisshaupt,” Varel announced. He seemed pleased, somehow. Castor grinned and clapped his hands together.

“That settles it then. Anders, welcome to the order.”

The Templar continued to grumble and growl even as those around us quietly congratulated Anders on his recruitment. He seemed, at least for now, to be quite satisfied with the idea. It hurt, almost, knowing what would happen. Like nostalgia, but backwards. Maybe I could—but no, no. I couldn’t stop it. That is to say, it’s possible I could, but I wouldn’t. I couldn’t let myself. It was… too important.

We dispersed, when that was done. Sort of. Seneschal Varel showed us the rooms that had been prepared for us—miraculously untouched, for the most part. A few beds that had been claimed, now empty for a new body, reminded us that we were not the first to arrive. The dozen Orlesian Wardens who had arrived before us had been here.

One of them had been an elf, judging by the armor I found in the closet of the room I would share with Neria. (As senior wardens, we slept separately; Darrien would have been with us, but Castor insisted that Darrien share his bed. He’d almost made Darrien the Warden-Constable, his second-in-command, but Capella convinced him Neria was a better fit.) The armor was too large for Neria and too heavy for me. I pushed it aside.

Littlefoot hopped into the wardrobe. I transformed into a cat (much easier to fit in small spaces and much better for cuddling) and joined him. I didn’t try closing the door; I’d done it once at the palace, and Theron had spent nearly three hours looking for me. Theron might not be here, but Neria was, and she seemed to have taken over the unofficial ‘Vir’era-Watch.’

I didn’t mind. It was comforting, and as I pressed myself into the space between Littlefoot’s front legs, I heard her humming quietly to herself. She wasn’t a great singer, but I recognized the tune as one Leliana had sung a few times. The combination of dark safety, a mabari guard dog, and a familiar tune allowed me to sleep.

 

I slept better than I had expected and longer than I had planned. By the time I woke up properly, light was shining brightly through the windows of my shared room. Neria’s bed was empty and made. I could hear people moving in the halls. Castor’s voice carried the best, but Oghren’s was the loudest.

“No, Oghren, I can’t make you a Senior Warden yet.”

“Piss! I was there at th’ final battle or whatever you humans’re callin’ it. I helped fight the damned Blight up on th’ front lines with ya! Well, maybe not then, but th’ rest o’ the time!”

“Oghren. You literally underwent your Joining twenty minutes ago.”

“So?”

“I have to wait until you’ve done things more than belch louder than anyone at the Joining Chalice.”

“Hah! Bet tha’s prob’ly true, innit?”

“Most people faint, so yeah, probably.”

“Pfft. Weak. I’ve had beer what tastes worse!”

“You sure it was beer?”

“Eh… not really, but it was in my ale cup when I woke up, an’ I was too thirsty to give a damn.”

“That’s disgusting.”

Oghren just laughed. I stretched, prompting Littlefoot to jump from the wardrobe and do the same. We walked to the door together, and I transformed back as I peeked out.

Oghren saw me immediately and aimed a huge grin in my direction. “There y’are!” he boomed. “Was a bit upset that ya didn’ show up for my Joining, but Asstor here—oh, so sorry, I mean Castor—said you were real tired’n’needed ta sleep. Woulda argued, but Neria gave me the stink eye. She’s scary with a sword.”

“Scarier than me?” Castor asked, but I could tell he was mostly just amused.

Oghren snorted. “A kitten’s scarier than you, pretty boy.”

“Did someone say kitten?” The voice was groggy, but I recognized it as Anders’.

“Yeah. You take your drink like one. What’d they feed ya up in them Circles? Jus’ water? Wynne knew her ales.”

Anders peered out of a door nearby. “That was definitely not ale.”

“Eh.”

“Do you like kittens?” Neria asked Anders, eyebrows raised. I don’t think she’d expected him up and about so soon—if Castor was right, he and Oghren and… and Mhairi had had their Joining less than an hour ago.

“Like them?” Anders retorted. “Don’t you remember the cats at the Tower? There was one who was my only friend that year I was down in the cells. Poor Mr. Wiggums…”

A small silence brought the conversation down for a moment until Oghren snorted and asked about lunch. Castor sighed.

 

The next couple of days were mostly uneventful for me. Castor was busy, though; his schedule was full of formalities and greeting the people he now was technically arl of. He took to the job like a fish to water, and I was grateful that he did not ask me to attend the ceremonies.

I spent most of my time familiarizing myself with the Keep. It was enormous, and I found it all too easy to get lost. Littlefoot was good at finding a way back to the doors, at least, and I knew how to get to my room from there. I could find the kitchens, the sleeping quarters, and the main hall reliably by the end of the second full day. Everything else was… confusing.

At some point while I was either hiding or exploring, Castor had apparently been introduced to Nathaniel Howe. I had forgotten about him, actually. When he was introduced I was unsurprised, but I still felt… Well, I should have remembered. Should have been able to tell Castor that Rendon Howe’s son lived.

Castor didn’t seem to care. Or maybe he did but had decided to give Nathaniel a chance. It was as hard to read him sometimes as his sister. Either way, he seemed prepared to not blame Nathaniel for his father’s mistakes from the few times I saw them interact.

Anders was interesting. When I made it to the meals served in the hall, he always had a few questions for me and new insight to Circle life. I think he mostly wanted to know what it was like to live as an essentially free mage, because he asked why Templars hadn’t tried to take me in as an apostate and whether all Keepers were mages and didn’t I want to run away sometimes to be normal?

I answered as best I could. I knew Templars were aware of Keepers and Firsts all being mages, but allowed their existence as some kind of uneasy truce. As such, we were apostates in that we were not part of the Circle or the Chantry, but I didn’t think we were truly apostates; we were not on the run any more than all Dalish were.

I wasn’t sure what he meant about normal, though. Normal… Was that Before? Or was that living in Thedas as an accepted person? I didn’t know. I was starting to forget what was normal, because normal for me… Normal for me had become camping with eclectic companions and singing with Leliana. It had been sleeping with Littlefoot on my legs and laughing when Morrigan made some snarky comment.

But that was gone now. Normal was going to be different again. Eating in a hall with Castor and Darrien and Neria, writing to Mia when I had time, helping to restore Amaranthine and Vigil’s Keep to the best of my ability. That, I supposed, would be normal, now.

On the third day, I was exploring the castle as a cat. Fewer people paid me any mind in that form; I wasn’t one of the heroes of the Fifth Blight, then. I was just a cat, wandering around. Nathaniel made some comment about dogs and cats getting along when he saw Littlefoot following me, but I didn’t quite catch it. He seemed amused, at least.

But Anders, when he saw me, grew excited. “Aww, look at the kitty!” he cooed, and knelt down. Beside him, Neria laughed. “What a pretty kitty!”

“Anders,” Neria said, still giggling, “that’s not a cat.”

Anders rolled his eyes. “I’m not blind, Neria. Of course it’s a cat, what else could it be?”

Behind me, Littlefoot snorted. Anders gave him a funny look and Neria nodded along. “Yes, Littlefoot’s got the right of it. He agrees with me, you see.”

“Where’s Vir’era?” Anders asked, instead, even as he reached out a hand towards me. I sat and watched, wondering what Neria would do and how Anders would respond. “Doesn’t that dog always stay by his side or something?”

“Yes,” Neria said.

Anders looked around, obviously confused. “But he’s not here.”

“He is,” she replied.

“Well, I don’t see any other tiny elves standing around, so unless he can turn into a cat…”

I couldn’t resist the opportunity. I transformed back, making Anders squawk and jump. “He can,” I announced, smiling largely for what felt like the first time in days.

“That’s not fair!” Anders cried, pointing at me. “How? I have to know. I’m not good at much except healing, which I’m very good at. I thought shapeshifting was just one of those tales.”

“It’s more than a tail,” I said. I think the pun was lost on him, but I smiled anyway as I stood. Neria hugged me, though she didn’t say why. I returned it and didn’t ask.

“Can you become other things, too, then? What about a dragon?” Anders had certainly gotten over his shock quickly enough, but now he was determined to know more. “Neria’s already told me about the whole Arcane Warrior business, which, really, it sounds fascinating, but she can have the swords to herself. Shapeshifting, though…”

I shrugged. “I’ve only mastered two forms yet. The cat, as you just saw, and a mabari. Morrigan taught me while we were fighting the Blight.”

“Morrigan?” he asked. “You mean the Witch of the Wilds everyone says helped out?”

“Yes, that’s the one. Her mother was Flemeth.”

“I don’t know if I believe you.” He narrowed his eyes at me.

“I don’t have any reason to lie about this,” I said and shrugged. “But you can believe what you like. Shapeshifting isn’t easy, though. I could try to teach you, but I’m not sure how well I would do at that.”

He sighed dramatically. “No, it’s fine. Really. I’d probably be shit at it. I wasn’t lying when I said was best at healing. I mean, I can do a few interesting things with lightning, but healing’s always been my forte.”

I pretended this was new information. “Healing is good to know. And with… Um, well, it would be useful since Daylen and Wynne left.”

Conversation turned to general chatter about our experiences during the Blight. I had grown calmer over the past few days, bit by bit. But I knew things would get difficult again, and I wasn’t sure exactly when. It was like a shadow clinging to my shoulders, waiting to strangle me.

Apparently, I had missed the pledging of the lords and ladies of Amaranthine to Castor. No one had been able to find me, I was told. I think Neria knew where I’d been—the wardrobe had become my favorite hiding spot—but I was grateful I hadn’t been made to interact with strangers when I could barely function around familiar faces.

 

The fifth day after we arrived at and subsequently saved Vigil’s Keep, Castor made a venture into Amaranthine proper. I stayed back, unsure that I could handle a city. Neria stayed, too, saying something about keeping at least one of the command team in the vicinity. Since the tunnels underneath the Keep where the darkspawn had staged their ambush had yet to be sufficiently blocked, it was probably a good idea.

I meditated for a time and then sparred (well, wrestled) with Littlefoot in mabari form. I hadn’t used it often, but it was likely a good idea to be comfortable in it should the need arise again. Littlefoot let me win once, but only once. Still, for a dog that could not communicate in words, he was a stellar teacher.

Castor came back with reports of darkspawn activity in the west and something troubling the Pilgrim’s Path to the east. The first one was the place with the broodmothers, if I remembered right, and the second was Velanna.

I surprised everyone when I volunteered to help with the Pilgrim’s Path, but I explained to Castor what was happening later, more quietly. Neria and Darrien, too, of course, but Castor was the Warden-Commander. His was the final say, so to speak.

He sent Neria and Oghren with me and Littlefoot the next day to “investigate.” Meanwhile, he, Anders, Nathaniel, and Darrien took on the old thaig.

The first burning cart had no bodies with it; just a pile of broken crates and various spilled goods. From how empty even those burning crates were, I suspected they’d already been looted by someone. These were trying times. I didn’t blame them.

I was surprised when we actually ran into them, though. And the bandits wouldn’t stand down, so we were forced to fight. I didn’t want to kill them. I didn’t want to kill anyone if I could spare their life, but they were trying to kill me. I didn’t stop Oghren’s axe or Neria’s sword, though I did wonder how they could do such a thing with apparently so little remorse. Maybe I was just being ridiculous.

It didn’t take long for us to attract Velanna’s attention. She appeared in a tumble of roots, ancient magic shielding her until she wished to be seen. “Who are you?” she demanded, and looked at our little group. Two elves, a dwarf, and a mabari. “You’re not human, and not like the others anyway.” She focused sharp eyes on me. “You, with the vallaslin. Why are you here?”

“We’re Grey Wardens,” Neria said. “This area—”

“I was speaking to him!” Velanna interrupted, pointing to me, and then ignored Neria again in favor of staring me down. “You are no longer with a clan, are you? Have you joined with these shemlen?”

“We are here to stop the violence,” I said, “on any who venture here.”

“You came too late!” she said. “My clan—no, but you are a Grey Warden now. You’re no longer one of the People, not really.” She pursed her lips. “Leave, and do not return. I will not be so merciful next time.”

And then she was gone. That—that wasn’t right. Was it? I’d thought…

“We should follow her, if we can,” Neria decided. “She’s the one behind the attacks, you said. We can’t let her continue.”

“No,” I murmured, and hoped we were doing it right, “we can’t.”

Neria put an arm around my shoulders, giving me a small squeeze. Her armor pressed against my bones and grounded me. “We will not hurt her if we can avoid it.”

I nodded, and we crept forward. Oghren, silent for longer than I had expected, made some remark to Littlefoot, but I didn’t pay any mind.

The ruins we came across could not have been anything but ancient elven. I sighed wistfully as we passed a pillar, letting my hand drag along it for a moment before we moved on. “It must have been beautiful once,” I mused, barely aware I’d spoken at all.

“It was,” Neria said, with a funny far-off look on her face. “I… The spirit from the forest, the one who taught me about the Dirth’ena Enasalin? Sometimes I have memories from them. I can almost remember a beautiful city…”

The great desire that welled up in me then, the thirst for the knowledge she held without awareness of Arlathan and Elvhenan, surprised me. It was voracious, a great beast, like a hungry bear. Envy followed its appearance, and I wasn’t sure where any of that had come from. Was it even truly mine? (It had to be, I reasoned. I was simply still… I had yet to find my happy medium. That’s all.)

I just hummed, and we moved on without incident. Oghren looked up the hill and grunted. “Now what’s that doin’ there?” he asked.

“What’s what doing where?” Neria and I both followed his gaze, but there didn’t seem to be anything particularly unusual up that way.

“There’s a sword up there, stickin’ up outta the dirt. Looks human ta me. More o’those bandits, ya think?” He grinned and pounded a fist into his hand. “I’d be more’n happy to cave in s’more skulls.”

Neria approached the blade slowly. Sunlight glinted off it, blocked in some places by what looked to be dried blood. “This is of Ferelden make,” she said, examining the hilt. “But what’s it doing here?”

I didn’t like the sound of that. Something niggled at me, a half-memory like this was familiar, but I couldn’t quite remember. The events between the Battle of Denerim and Anders’ arrival in Kirkwall were never something I’d focused on. I probably should have. Maybe then I’d know what to expect now.

When I got closer to the blade, I glanced past it and froze. Some strangled sound slipped past my lips, stirring Neria from her thoughts. “What is it?” she asked me.

“Aravels,” I whispered, and looked at the empty Dalish camp with my heart in my throat. “They’re—oh, gods.” More Ferelden weapons (or, at least, human ones) littered the ground in the small clearing of the ruins. The aravels were empty, the fire long gone cold. To one side, small mounds of rocks drew my attention and my tears.

Graves.


	2. velanna

“Well, shit,” Oghren said. I heard something thunk into the ground. One hand thumped against my back. I think he meant it to be gentle, but didn’t quite manage. “Think it was them bandits? ‘Cause I’m more’n ready ta kill more.”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“You don’t know?” he echoed. I think he looked at Neria, but I couldn’t tear my eyes from the graves, so I don’t know. Regardless, she came to stand at my other side.

“You can’t know everything,” she soothed, and squeezed my shoulder. I blinked back tears. “You were bound to be surprised by something eventually.”

I shut my eyes tight, and Littlefoot whined at my feet. “Yes,” I said, eventually, “I guess so.”

Oghren grunted and nudged me. “Good. Now that that’s over, I think we got some bandits ta kill, huh?”

Neria unsheathed her sword. “Indeed.”

There was little talk as we walked back through the pillars, down the hill and across to the other side. I held my staff at the ready, wary now of whatever had killed that clan—Velanna’s clan. I worried that they would kill me, too. All of us, maybe, but Velanna was the one responsible for the merchants’ issues. So who, then, was responsible for hers?

The answer was not a good one.

We found a wounded soldier, nearly dead from Blightsickness. (Had I looked so pale, so near death when it had manifested in me?) There was nothing we could do for him. Even if we had tried to put him through the Joining, the Blight had spread too far in him. He would die. He knew it, too.

“It was darkspawn,” he told us. “They killed my whole camp. I only made it because… because I’m a coward. I ran, and now I’m dead anyway.”

“Did you kill the Dalish?” Neria asked. It was both accusatory and unassuming, a duality in words likely only accomplished because she was so sweet herself.

“W-what?” he asked, looking at her with wide eyes. “No, I swear it, we didn’t kill anyone. We—we were here for the darkspawn—but they’re so… They’re not supposed to talk! But they do! Oh, Maker…”

He died. He fell back to the ground and died, and all we knew is that he claimed that the darkspawn had killed the Dalish. Yet, somehow, I was certain he was right. Everything now was because of darkspawn, everything would be as a result of something they did for a while. I believed him.

It only strengthened that belief when, immediately after the man died, darkspawn came out from the trees around us and began to attack. They had been waiting, I realized, as I cast a shield over my comrades. We had walked into their trap—a trap that the darkspawn from the Blight would not have had the ability to conceive. These were no ordinary darkspawn.

I slammed the blade of my staff into the chest of a hurlock that got too close, striking straight through the flimsy, rusted mail it wore. As it stumbled back from the force of my blow, Littlefoot raced in to finish it off, and I sent a fireball at the creatures following my mabari.

The dark ichor dripping from the silverite blade distracted me just long enough for a seared genlock to get up in my personal space. It pulled its dagger back to strike, and I knew I wouldn’t have time to block the blow. Instead, I transformed for the first time mid-battle.

As a cat, the dagger cut the air far above my head, not even close to reaching me. I hissed on instinct and raked claws against the exposed skin of the genlock’s ankle. It wasn’t at all enough to kill him (he was hardly Achilles), but between that and the momentum from his attack, he did stumble forward and trip over an errant root.

I did not stay; I used the speed cats are known for to bolt into the treeline, out of sight and out of reach. Once there, I spun back around and transformed back, taking advantage of the hiding spot to lay glyphs without the need to protect myself actively. I concentrated them most heavily in front of Neria and Oghren, so that the darkspawn—still not smart enough to lure the prey to themselves—would be caught and still as my friends attacked.

I wove a shield over Littlefoot, and he took out the archers. There were two, and the first did not see my dog coming. It was over before it had begun, there; the second, warned by the first’s demise, shot three arrows in quick succession, but my shield held. I’d been getting better with them, too; not only were these arrows slowed, they were diverted. Littlefoot wasn’t even reached for a bruise. The second archer fell as quickly as the first.

When I looked again to Neria and Oghren, they were beginning to wipe the blood from their weapons and armor. I waited a moment longer to be certain no other ‘spawn were nearby, but I couldn’t feel them. (There was a permanent feeling of darkspawn in the area, for now, but it wasn’t as strong.)

I crept through the bushes and back to stand at Neria’s side. She tilted her head at me, a silent question. “I’m alright,” I answered. “Are either of you hurt?”

“Got a little nick here,” Oghren grumbled. He pointed at his nose, which was bleeding rather profusely from a cut over the top.

“I’d hardly call that little.” I wrinkled my own nose, and he snorted, waving off the idea.

“Jus’ fix it up ‘nough that I don’ bleed out, yeah? Leave a scar, though. Ladies love scars.” He snickered to himself, puffing up his chest. I rolled my eyes. He must have caught the motion, because he winked at me as I lifted a hand to heal his nose as much as I could. “But I bet yer more’n aware o’ that, huh? With all that writin’ ya do. Whozit ya write to, eh, elfy boy? Got a girl waitin’ in one o’ them Dalish camps?”

I pressed my lips together as he spoke, figuring it would be best to let him get it all out. “No,” I said when he finished. “Besides. I don’t go for girls.” His eyebrows nearly leapt off his face, and he took a large step back. I rolled my eyes again. “Or smelly, drunk dwarves.”

“Right. Good. ‘Cause I got Felsi’n’all. An’ you may be pretty ‘nough ta be a girl, but I—what’s it you said? I don’t go for boys.” He sniffed loudly. Neria laughed briefly, and I shook my head with a sigh.

“If we could get back to business now?” I asked. Velanna was here somewhere, probably. If we could just find her…

“O’course.” Oghren coughed, readjusting his grip on his battleaxe, and we wandered back out. I glanced to the others, but they seemed just as lost for where to look for Velanna as me. Neria shrugged and started off decisively in an apparently random direction, holding out a charm as she went.

“I found this on one of the darkspawn. It’s a necklace, I think,” she said. I jogged up next to her and examined it closely.

“It’s Dalish, I think.” It was on a leather cord, and appeared to have been made from ironbark. It was the same color and texture as my old staff, at least, and only the Dalish knew anything about ironbark.

It took us less than fifteen minutes of wandering in a mostly-straight line to catch wind of what I had come to recognize as death. Perhaps against wise course of action, we followed the scent. (Well, Oghren trusted that we could smell it, at least.) I was almost growing accustomed to the stench. I didn’t even gag.

We found the bodies of the rest of the human soldier’s group. They’d been dumped together in a shallow hole—a mass grave likely created by the darkspawn. I doubted Velanna would have moved the bodies, and the soldier we saw had been in no shape to attempt such an undertaking.

“If the smell’s anything to go by,” Neria said, “they’ve been dead longer than the Dalish. They couldn’t be our murderers.”

“Then it was the darkspawn,” I concluded. I let the thought roll through my mind. Is that what happened? It didn’t sound wrong, but I couldn’t remember.

Neria took out a map and quietly made guesses as to our position, marking the gravesite. “I’ll see if we can send some soldiers to… put them to rest properly. When we get back.”

I nodded, only half-listening. She rolled the map back up and I followed her lead out of range of the smell. As we walked, I tried to remember more from the Wending Woods quests, but kept coming up blank. They hadn’t been my favorite, certainly, but… Well, usually I could remember at least something. I resolved to check my journal later. Maybe I had written it down.

A crack resounded through the trees, and roots barred our path onward. I looked around for the source and found Velanna standing on top of a small hill. “You’re still here?” she asked, frowning. “I told you to leave!”

“Please!” Neria exclaimed, raising her arms and leaving her sword in its sheath. “We don’t want to hurt you! We’re here to help, I promise.”

“How? My clan is dead. You cannot bring them back. I am only exacting retribution. The shemlen deserve it for what they did to my clan!” Velanna snarled and paced above us.

“It was not the shems who killed your clan,” Neria said. “It was darkspawn. That’s why we’re here. For the darkspawn, not to hurt you.”

Velanna just sneered. “And you repeat their lies! I’ll show you what I think of that!”

She lifted her arms above her head and brought them down like she was delivering a divine sentence. Immediately, two of the nearby trees shuddered and came to life, becoming sylvans. Wolves tore out from somewhere nearby, growling and ready to kill. Whether she was controlling them or had simply influenced them didn’t matter.

I shoved a few of the gathered wolves away with a quickly-cast Mind Blast and followed it up by laying glyphs of paralysis around myself in an arc. Littlefoot leapt over a glyph and into the largest of the wolves, engaging it with ease. Two others ran for me, obviously incapable of comprehending what the glyphs were, and became stuck.

There were still a few wolves, but they seemed to find Oghren far more interesting—I’d be willing to bet that he smelled the worst. I didn’t bother questioning it. With the silverite blade on my staff, I slit the throats of the two wolves I’d paralyzed. They were dead before the spell broke, for which I was thankful. I didn’t like killing unnecessarily, and everything about this felt like it could have been avoided somehow. Maybe.

Littlefoot was having a bit more trouble with the alpha. I saw a few small scrapes on both their hides, but neither had the advantage as they rolled around, a mass of growls and fur fighting for dominance. I hovered nervously, re-casting my glyphs so that I could watch with less worry.

They broke apart after a moment and began to circle each other. If I were to have any chance of helping my mabari this would be it. “Littlefoot!” I called. “Here!”

He barked and jumped to my side, once again avoiding the glyphs like a pro. The alpha wolf was not so lucky. He became caught, and I slit his throat as I had slit the others’. I sent a small prayer to Andruil, asking that she forgive me for killing without need. I didn’t know if that’s how the Dalish did it, but it felt right to me, even if I knew the goddess was not here any longer.

Neria had similar luck with the sylvans; though they were large and their branches could reach further than her blade, she was still a mage. From where I stood as the fighting ended, it seemed that she had simply kited them around after lighting them aflame, waiting for them to burn to death. Oghren, ever skilled with his axe, had beheaded three wolves and disemboweled a fourth.

We all took a moment to breathe and check ourselves over. I hadn’t been hurt at all, but Littlefoot had; I healed his wounds, grateful that they were small enough for my unskilled healing. Neria had endured a hit to her head, but since she seemed okay other than the bleeding, I was able to take care of it. Oghren belched when I asked if he was alright. “Not injured, if’n that’s what ya mean. Could use some ale, though.”

“Well, unfortunately for you, I don’t carry ale on me. Didn’t you brink some whiskey, though?” I asked, wiping my staff blade on the grass to remove the wolves’ blood.

“Yeah, you’re right, o’course.” He dropped his pack and dug around in it for a moment before triumphantly pulling out a flask and taking a long swig.

Neria raised her eyebrow and waited for him to finish. “We should probably follow that woman now. It looked like she was headed back to the Dalish camp. While I don’t know that I blame her, we can’t let her keep killing innocent people.”

Oghren grunted in a vaguely affirmative way, and we climbed the small hill back to the ruins and the silent camp. Velanna was there, as Neria had suspected; she was kneeling over one of the shallow graves. I swallowed hard.

I stepped forward, my hands up in a gesture of peace. “Velanna,” I said, forgetting that she had not yet told us her name, “it really was the darkspawn. They attacked us, too, not an hour ago. They set a trap.”

“Darkspawn,” she spat, but didn’t turn around. “Do you really expect me to believe that? They are bestial! They cannot think for themselves.” She stood. “But is the same story others said…”

Neria came to stand beside me. “The darkspawn killed the humans, too, and took their weapons to fool you. You and anyone else who came looking, I think.”

“I did wonder why anyone would leave the weapons behind,” Velanna murmured, just barely audible, and finally turned to face us. “What you say has some merit, I will admit. I just do not see how the darkspawn could accomplish such a feat.”

“These ones can,” I insisted.

She pursed her lips and frowned at me. “How do you know my name?”

I swallowed. “I… just do. The same way that I know that there is one darkspawn in particular who allowed all the others such freedom of thought.”

As the First considered this, Neria sent me a shocked (concerned?) look. “You know?” she whispered.

I winced. “Not… not everything. Just some things. Barely anything.”

She started to open her mouth, maybe to demand I share with the class, but I shook my head. “Later,” she hissed, and I nodded. In front of us, Velanna tapped her foot.

“If what you say is true, then it is the darkspawn I should kill, not the shemlen.” Eyes like jade sculptures examined us closely. “You are Grey Wardens, you said?”

“Yes,” Neria answered. “It is our duty to fight darkspawn.” She gave me a brief look from the corner of her eye, so short I could not interpret it, and continued, “You could join us. Become a Grey Warden and fight darkspawn. Avenge your clan.” She took out the trinket. “If that’s not enough, we found this on one of the darkspawn from earlier.”

“That’s Seranni’s,” Velanna breathed. They had a staring contest, then. Miraculously, Oghren remained quiet. Maybe he was still reeling over the fact that I liked men. Maybe he was just drinking more. I wouldn’t be surprised either way.

I don’t know what passed between the two women. I wasn’t always the best at interpreting the facial expressions even of people I knew well, let alone people I had just met. Neria seemed confident, with her head held high and her shoulders back, sunlight glinting off her armor. Velanna did not back down in response, but I know something changed; she nodded after a long moment and stood straighter than she had since we first saw her.

“Very well,” she announced. “Grey Wardens, I shall join you. If what you say is true, then Seranni may still be alive. I will help you and we will find my sister.”

Neria beamed at her, startling Velanna enough to be visible. I felt my own shoulders sag in relief and heard Oghren let out a particularly loud belch. Velanna grimaced at the sound. “You get used to it,” Neria sighed. “Eventually.”

“So! Since I’m the only real man here—sorry, Vee, but real men got beards—I think I’ll take the lead, huh?” Oghren puffed out his chest, apparently at ease being the only non-elf. (Or, well, the only non-elf capable of speaking. Littlefoot certainly wasn’t an elf.)

“Oh?” Velanna asked, crossing her arms. “And where are we going, then? Do you already know where the darkspawn are?”

Oghren pulled a face and harrumphed. “Well, no, but I’m a Grey Warden!” He thumped one fist against his breastplate. “Findin’ darkspawn’s what we do!”

Neria groaned. “You’re right, Oghren, and I don’t mind if you lead, but we should at least have a direction first, okay?” She didn’t really wait for a reply, but since Oghren just mumbled something into his beard, it likely didn’t matter. “Velanna, are there any deep caves here? Anywhere that could lead to the Deep Roads?”

“You mean you haven’t figured out where they’re coming from?” she asked, frowning at us.

Neria shrugged. “We’re new to the area. I’ve never been this far north in my life, actually. If Castor—he’s the Warden-Commander—if he were here, he might know something, since he’s from Highever, but Oghren’s from Orzammar and I grew up in the Circle and Vir’era’s from further south, too.”

I nodded hesitantly when Velanna looked to me for confirmation. She narrowed her eyes at me, then. “Vir’era, was it?” I nodded again. She pointed at Oghren. “And Oghren.” He grunted, and she pointed to Neria. “And?”

“Neria Surana, Warden-Constable, at your service!” Neria announced, bowing a little. She smiled brightly, and Velanna nodded. She gave me another curious look before pointing off to our left.

“There is an old mine in the ruins a short ways to the north. It’s deep, and the only place I think that matches what you are looking for,” she told us. She sounded like an authoritative teacher whose students hadn’t been listening the first time.

“Gotcha,” Oghren said, completely unaffected by the mage’s demeanor. (Come to think of it, not only was he the only speaking non-elf, but the three of us were all mages, too…) He clapped his hands together. “Let’s go pummel some darkspawn arse!”

When we first entered the mine, the air was older than outside, as had been expected, but not nearly so old as it should have been. The mine was abandoned—from how rotted the wooden supports and platforms leading down were, it had been abandoned long ago. Yet the air, while unclean, was not as stifling or heavy as I had come to expect of long-abandoned places.

Even Oghren seemed a bit put off by the whole affair. Of course, that could easily have been due to the increased feeling of darkspawn. I felt them clawing in my mind; they were near. How many and of what sort I could not say, but I knew they were near, and that was enough. For now, that was all I had.

Still, we climbed down, down, down, deep into the dark and musty mines. Oghren led the way, a small wisp of light conjured by Neria floating around his head. (He’d protested, at first, but when she pointed out that the alternative was walking through the dark, he’d caved.)

I tried not to wonder how structurally stable the rock was. Surely it wouldn’t collapse on our heads? Whatever was here—and I couldn’t remember for the life of me—it was obviously important. Maybe this is where we were supposed to meet Velanna’s sister, though I could have sworn that didn’t happen until later.

We reached the bottom of the stairs and clustered, perhaps against better judgement, in the center of the room. Down here, there were lights; someone (or something) was using the area, but we couldn’t see any activity. No miners, no darkspawn—just the ever-increasing scratch of them at the back of our minds.

The stones beneath us didn’t look like any mine I’d ever known, but I had admittedly been into very few mines. No one else was bothered by them. Neria began to creep forward, Oghren falling back once again to defer to her lead.

Not ten steps from the stairs, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. We turned as one, having apparently all felt the same thing, and when we looked up…

The Architect stared down at us, a dwarf at his side. “Shh…” he commanded, waving a hand. “Sleep…” Something underneath us lit, and everything went dark.

 

I don’t know precisely how it happened, but I know that I awoke in only the thin breeches and tunic I wore under the battlemage armor that was now my uniform. Everyone else was in a similar state—except Velanna, who was in entirely different clothes, as she had worn only a set of Keeper robes.

We were in a cell, and when I pushed myself up, Littlefoot quickly came over to snuffle at my face. “Hello, da’fen,” I murmured, biting back a yawn. I glanced over to Neria. “Where are we?”

“I don't know,” she admitted and pursed her lips, “but I don’t like it. There’s darkspawn everywhere—you feel them, too, right?”

I swallowed but nodded. “They had a trap for us, somehow. And we fell for it.”

“Bloody bastards,” Oghren spat. Literally—a small globule of spittle hit the floor with his words. I scrunched my nose in distaste.

Neria approached the cell door and began to examine it when a woman appeared from the shadows. Her face was gaunt and parts of the skin had turned black, the wounds like popped pustules there marking her clearly as a ghoul. I could just make out the tips of pointed ears peeking through her hair.

“Seranni!” Velanna exclaimed, rushing to the cell door. “Oh, creators! What have they done to you?”

Seranni drew close. “They haven’t done anything to me. I—I’m fine, Velanna,” she said, but though she seemed confident and calm with those words, she spoke in a quiet voice, like she did not want to be heard. “It’s not me he wants.” She glanced over her shoulder. “I have to get you out before something bad happens. I don’t want anyone else to be hurt.”

“Yes, alright. Let me out and I’ll take you home.” Velanna reached through the cell, but Seranni stepped out of range.

She looked at Neria. “The darkspawn have your things. You can still get it all back if you’re careful and clever—” Something clanged and Seranni looked over her shoulder once again. “They’re coming back! You have to hurry!”

“Please!” Neria said. “What’s happening? What can you tell us?”

Seranni pulled a face and shoved a key through the bars into Neria’s hands. “I don’t know anything!” she exclaimed. “But this key opens a chest in… in the emissary’s room. There might be answers there.”

The clanging grew louder. “They’re coming! Please, find a way out of the mines and leave!” And then she was running, off through a door on the opposite side of the clanging.

“Wait, Seranni!” Velanna called, stretching her arm after her sister. “You can’t just leave! Seranni!”

“I don’t think she’s keen on listenin’ to ya,” Oghren said, rolling his shoulders. Velanna snarled at him, but Neria opened the door to the cell and effectively cut off whatever argument was about to occur.

“One thing she’s right about is that we need to leave,” Neria said. “There aren’t weapons here, but we have three mages, a dog, and one hell of a warrior. We can take these darkspawn.”

Velanna nodded tightly, and Oghren thumped his chest with pride. Then the doors opened, a few darkspawn sauntering in, and we took them by surprise. They weren’t unarmed, but they had certainly not expected a fight; they weapons were sheathed as they entered, giving us a few moments of advantage.

Oghren ran right into the middle of them, tackling a genlock and prompting a fight for the sword it carried. Neria blasted one with Winter’s Grasp, and Littlefoot crashed into the creature. Without a staff, and with Neria relegated to distance fighting until we could procure her sword, I decided to transform into a mabari as well.

I heard Velanna make some surprised sound when I changed shape, but it didn’t surprise her for long. Soon, roots reached up and wound around the legs of the furthest hurlock, pulling it down to the ground. I leapt over Oghren’s continued fight for a sword and sank my teeth into the hurlock’s outstretched arm. It screamed below me. I growled and bit down harder, feeling the delicate wrist bones crack and break in my jaws.

From the corner of my eyes, I saw it raise its free arm and prepare to strike with a small knife. I jumped backwards; the knife swept past my nose, only just missing me. Behind me, Littlefoot barked loudly. I didn’t dare look back to see what the fuss was about. My comrades would watch my back. I needed to concentrate on the hurlock who was continuing to brandish that knife at my face.

I shuffled to the left, grateful that Castor had insisted I practice fighting as a mabari ‘just in case.’ The knife missed me, and the hurlock’s momentum brought it down on the stone. In the seconds of jarred shock that bought me, I snapped my jaws around the creature’s other arm. It screamed again, jerking its arm away, but I did not let up until the knife was released.

The knife slid across stone. I followed its path backwards, away from the hurlock, to gather momentum for a final assault, but this proved unnecessary. While I had fought, Oghren had won a sword, and he jabbed it over my head and through the hurlock’s.

I turned around to find the battle over. I started to transform back, but thought better of it. There weren’t any staves among the weapons these darkspawn had, and I did not know how to use swords or a bow and arrow. Neria picked up a sword and shield, testing their weights in her hands. She pulled a face; they probably weren’t up to her standard.

“Let’s keep going,” she muttered, jerking her head down the hallway that the darkspawn had come from. I nodded, but the action felt strange on a dog’s body.

Velanna brought up the rear of the group. I swore I could feel her watching me as I sniffed at Littlefoot, trying to see if he’d been hurt. I didn’t smell blood, though, so he seemed fine. He returned the favor, and when I passed his inspection, he licked my face. I snorted at him. He panted at me. We were alright.

In the first room beyond the cells, a ghoul stumbled out into view, and Velanna let out an entirely scandalized gasp. “She has my things!” she accused, pointing one thin finger. “Those are my clothes!”

The ghoul screeched in response and started to attack. I heard Oghren curse as darkspawn from the other side of the room noticed the commotion. There was no time to waste; we began to battle once again. Littlefoot, Oghren, and I concentrated our efforts entirely on the darkspawn. From the occasional spells that joined us, at least Neria was splitting her attention from the ghoul.

It took us slightly less time to deal with these creatures than it had with the first group, because though we did not have the element of surprise, we were better equipped than we had been. Oghren grumbled about using such a ‘small’ weapon, but he was perfectly capable even without a greataxe.

As Velanna took her robes and staff back, Neria looked to us. “Do you think all of our things will be like Velanna’s?” she asked. I could tell the question was for me, but I had no answer. I whined, and she sighed. “Well, let’s get out of here. Hopefully we can find it all.”

I really wanted to find my staff. As we walked further along the hallways, trying to find a way out, its absence grew stronger in my mind and I grew nervous. That staff wasn’t just some trinket! It was a gift from Alistair (and Capella). A special one, something as thanks for my help during the Blight, but also maybe the first steps of forgiveness for my part in Loghain’s recruitment.

My eyesight as a dog was poorer in the dark than my eyesight as an elf, which I had not expected. I’d heard that elves had excellent night vision, but I had always thought dogs did, too. Maybe mabari just didn’t. I could certainly still see more colors than I’d thought dogs could…

Regardless, it was difficult to discern beyond basic shapes in the dark. The short creatures were genlocks; the tall ones were hurlocks; the hunched ones were shrieks. Anything else was almost impossible to guess as we crept ever onwards. We did find on a genlock Oghren’s armor and greataxe, which he actually kissed upon being reunited with, and later Neria’s equipment was worn by a shriek.

I could feel my heart pounding, intrusive thoughts taunting me with the possibility that my staff had been too valuable to give to darkspawn, that it had been given to something higher up instead. The thoughts grew louder and more frequent the higher we climbed—and we were going higher. It was a good sign for leaving. Bad for finding my staff.

Until we reached the emissary’s room, that is. My staff was there, hung on the wall. The green stormheart of the dragon at its top gleamed in firelight, turning iridescent purple at the bottom of its half-furled wings. I didn’t even bother trying to see if my armor was around; I didn’t care. I transformed back to an elf and all but ran at my staff, pulling it delicately from the hooks and clutching the obsidian shaft tightly.

If anyone noticed my display, nothing was said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you have any trouble reading how i've written oghren's dialogue, let me know! i'm trying to stay true to character without completely giving up normal spelling.
> 
> i'm not entirely sure how long twc will be, but i'm estimating around ten chapters. awakening might not be near half as long as origins, but there's a lot for vee to do and learn that isn't necessarily covered in the game. but i've finished all my classes and have only one final to take care of, so other than my disney vacation, i shooooould have enough time to keep my lead on chapters and make sure any wait between fics is minimal.


	3. blossom of snow

Neria and Oghren exchanged words about what had been found in the room and the chest. My armor had been there, too, and I pulled it on while they spoke. I didn’t have anything to contribute right now. My fingers were shaking when I reached for my staff once more. I swallowed and hoped the rest of me was not shaking.

No darkspawn stood between us and the exit. I could feel an enormous presence, some strange darkspawn creature. It reminded me of how the Archdemon had felt, but… less angry, somehow. No song, however faint, came with this presence. Not like the Archdemon had sung in our dreams during the Blight.

I figured it was the Architect, but didn’t know how to say as much. Would anyone even believe me? Would they believe me when—if?—I told them just what he was? Probably not. At least, they’d take me seriously, but they wouldn’t… No matter how seriously they took me, I doubted they’d be able to believe without substantial proof that the Architect was one of the ancient magisters who had breached the Fade in pursuit of the Golden City.

These thoughts tumbled and stumbled in my mind as we followed the path to the exit. I was barely aware of what was happening, so distracted by my worries that I did not realize the Architect had come to confront us until he spoke.

Neria was hardly kind to him, but I couldn’t blame her. What reason did she have to be anything less than furious? I hadn’t given her one. I couldn’t, probably. She shouted at him and brandished her sword; Velanna implored her sister to come back with her, to forget this madness.

Seranni didn’t listen, of course. She and the Architect—as well as a mysterious dwarf I thought I heard him call a Grey Warden—disappeared through a broken part of the wall. Neria started to head after them, but the Architect was faster, and he partially caved in the tunnel, sealing the hole with boulders we could not hope to move.

And, of course, because everything has to be difficult, two dragons decided to make their presence known then. Neither were high dragons, thank the gods, but they were both fully-fledged dragons nonetheless. We had passed a nest on the way out—I wondered if it belonged to one of them. Or both, perhaps. We’d killed the drake there.

With my staff back in my hands, I was free to engage from a distance, putting myself at much lower risk of catching fire or getting clawed. If Oghren was worried about either of things, he didn’t act it, because he ran right at one of the dragons with an almighty roar.

Neria charged the other, but from the way she shimmered, I could tell she was working her magic. I decided to focus my efforts on aiding Oghren. He shouted something over his shoulder when I cast a shield over him, and I assumed it was a thank you. Or something that passed as one, anyway.

Littlefoot, clearly having decided that Oghren would take offense to being offered further aid, joined Neria. I cast a shield over him, too, but didn’t linger. Oghren’s dragon pushed him back a few feet and started to beat her wings, like she was looking to take to the air. I hit her with Winter’s Grasp, and though it didn’t freeze her entirely, it did freeze her wings.

As Oghren re-engaged her in close-quarters combat, I ducked to the side of the room so that I could fire at the dragon without hitting him. She was a large enough creature that I could hit her flank while he took on her front; bursts of ice left my staff and chilled her scales. She glanced back at me exactly once, just enough to see where I was. Soon, her tail whipped toward me. I jumped backwards, only to catch my foot on debris and fall regardless.

At least I didn’t have the additional bruising from a dragon’s tail, I supposed. I was certainly out of her reach now, I figured. I doubted my glyphs would affect her—she was too large. The ice had seemed to be little more than an annoying poke in the side. From the cough of flame that she let out (and miraculously did not catch in Oghren’s alcohol-infused beard), I could surmise that fire would be almost entirely useless.

But Oghren was cutting her scales. I saw blood on his axe and a cut on her shoulder; if I could not harm her, I could at least help him. I enchanted his axe with ice and watched it steam with his next successful hit; I used what I knew of auras to make his hits stronger.

Were I an accomplished force mage, I might have tried using that to my advantage, but I was not. I was hardly an accomplished mage in anything, it seemed. Not that it mattered for this fight. Our dragon reared and slammed Oghren down. She crouched, lifting her wings high over her body, and I could read the signs easy enough. I shoved my staff forward and froze her wings once more, preventing her takeoff before it could occur.

She screamed, and it echoed in the chamber like the walls themselves were answering her call. But if they were, they did not help her. Oghren was still trapped underneath her front legs, and while that hardly slowed him down (I could see him flailing his axe as best he could with one arm and kicking his feet into her belly), his attacks were much less effective.

Perhaps I was not an accomplished force mage, but I did know a thing or two about chemistry and physics. I blasted her wings with ice a few more times, freezing them as well as I could and making them as cold as I could, and then I drew up my mana and willed it to be beyond hot, willed it to become hellfire. I loosed this hellfire, this raging intense heat, and it thundered over the dragon in a whoosh of burning oxygen.

Her wings cracked under the pressure and the heat, breaking apart as I could not have managed through simple force, and pieces fell to the floor through the flames, burning as they passed. The dragon screamed again. I brought my hand around and clenched it, bringing the flames to an abrupt halt. One wing was gone completely, only a bare and burned bone left in its place. The other had a little nub left, a small amount of melted flesh and cracked bone, and the dragon screamed as she realized this.

She began to back up—not to admit defeat, but out of sheer momentary terror, out of fright so pure that all thought disappeared in favor of a simple solution: move away from the pain. It did not succeed, of course, not for her, but that is not what I had intended. I caught one of her back legs in Winter’s Grasp, and she wailed. She pulled at the leg, stared at it in confusion and concern. She did not notice Oghren’s approach until it was too late, and he killed her with one last swoop of his axe.

As her head fell to the floor, followed shortly thereafter by the rest of her body, I turned my gaze to the battle on the other side of the room. It went differently—obviously, perhaps—though I could not say the precise actions, I could see roots that had broken through the floor to tangle the dragon’s legs, and I knew that to be Velanna’s work. Long sets of gashes in the wings were bestowed by Littlefoot, rendering them useless and bleeding the creature out. The wounds on the front and the sword in her chest had been from Neria, then.

Neria pulled out her blade with a prolonged squelching sound, much to the dismay of myself and Velanna. The blood on it gave off a small plume of steam, and I privately thought it a minor miracle that her blade had not been warped by the heat. (Then again, I did not know just how hot a dragon was, nor did I know the melting point of silverite.)

“Anyone got a spare cloth?” she asked, and I saw her nose wrinkle through her helmet.

“Gimme a minnit,” replied Oghren, waving a small half-bloodied cloth in the air. He then finished wiping off his axe, and Neria came to wait for him to finish.

Velanna followed her, watching me as I looked Littlefoot over for injuries. Nothing I couldn’t handle, though the burn on his shoulder would leave a scar. I kissed his head when I finished, and he licked my face delightedly.

“Vir’era.” Velanna said my name with such purpose that I almost did not recognize it, but I managed to turn before it seemed like I would ignore her. I met her narrowed eyes, and she pursed her lips. “You said before that you knew of one darkspawn who had allowed the others their freedom of thought. It was the very same darkspawn that imprisoned us, was it not?”

I glanced to Neria, half-hoping that she might get me out of this conversation (confrontation), but she seemed as interested in my answer as Velanna. I swallowed and nodded. “Yes,” I said, quietly. “I—I didn’t know he would—would capture us, and I d-don’t… I don't know if he said to—if he told the darkspawn—there’s another, the Mother, and maybe she made…”

“You think this other powerful talking darkspawn may have been responsible for killing my clan,” Velanna concluded. Her foot was tapping on the stone, a small pat-pat-pat sound coming from where it met the floor, but though she was obviously impatient, she was not glaring at me. She glared instead at the boulders that blocked the Architect’s exit. Her sharp eyes caught on Neria like claws on cloth. “You are Grey Wardens.”

“Yes,” Neria answered, accepting at last Oghren’s bloody cloth.

“You have powers,” Velanna continued. “For sensing the darkspawn. That is what they say.” Neria glanced up, nodded, and used the cleanest part of the cloth to begin wiping her blade. Velanna began to pace. “Whatever that darkspawn has done or not done to my clan, he has my sister. If becoming a Grey Warden would help me to find my sister and to avenge my clan, then that is what I shall do.”

“Say it, sister!” Oghren cheered with a loud laugh, pumping one fist in the air at Velanna’s words. She made a face at him, but otherwise ignored him. (It was probably for the best.)

Neria dragged the cloth along the flat of her sword, allowing a small silence to echo in the cavern before she spoke. When she did, though, she only glanced at Velanna. “Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked. “The Joining can be fatal. You would risk dying to get only a better chance of finding your sister. There would be no definites.”

Crossing her arms, Velanna huffed at the thought. “Unlike the shemlen you would be familiar with, I do not make promises or proposals blindly! I know the risks. We Dalish are not so disconnected that we do not understand what it means to be a Grey Warden. I accept this. I offer you my service in return for your aid finding my sister.”

With a final pull of cloth over silverite, Neria hummed. She glanced over her sword for anything else requiring immediate attention, but found nothing. I held my breath. If she said no, I would say yes. Neria stood and took off her helmet, turning to face Velanna. She smiled, and I sighed in relief. “Welcome to the Grey Wardens, then,” she said, reaching out one hand. “We will do what we can to find your sister.”

 

That accomplished, we began the trek back to Vigil’s Keep. Outside, it had grown dark. The moon was full, though, so we had no issues seeing. At least, Neria, Velanna, and I didn’t. Littlefoot and Oghren were a bit less sure on their feet, but we were able to lead them without much issue beyond a minor injury to Oghren’s pride. (We promised to tell no one, and he seemed to feel better after that.)

Along the way, we ran into a lost halla. Or, perhaps more accurately, she ran into us. It almost seemed that she’d been looking for us—for Velanna, in particular. She went right up to Velanna, and before our new recruit could stop her, nuzzled her cheek gently against the mage’s arm.

“What?” Velanna asked, eyes wide. She was as surprised as we were. “Where did you come from?”

The halla snorted and looked gloomily in the direction of the decimated Dalish camp. “Oh,” Velanna said, then. “I see. You were one of our halla, weren’t you?” The halla nudged Velanna’s hand. I couldn’t tear my eyes from the beautiful creature; in the moonlight, she shone nearly silver, and her horns all but glowed. She seemed to want something from us—from Velanna—though I couldn’t say what.

“There weren’t any halla at the camp,” I murmured. “I… had wondered…” A lie. Sort of. In the recesses of my mind, it rang true, though I could not remember noticing the lack of halla in my shock at the dead elves.

“With the clan dead, they would have no reason to stay,” Velanna told me. I felt her gaze on me, but did not meet it. The halla’s eyes, dark and intelligent, watched me with interest. “There is no halla keeper to tend to them and no clan to guide.”

“So why’d it come here, huh?” Oghren asked. “I bet it thinks it’s found a new clan, huh, with all them pointy ears standin’ here.” He snorted. “Betcha don’t see many dwarves in yer clans, do ya, ya horn-head horse?”

Velanna made a disgusted noise, and the halla turned her head to consider Oghren. “They are smart, dwarf. Be careful what you say to her. She may not forget it,” Velanna warned. Oghren just snorted.

Before things could escalate, Neria interrupted. “She’s very beautiful. Does she have a name?”

Silence. Littlefoot padded up to the halla to sniff at her, and she at him. They considered each other, exchanging information with head tilts and blinks that I could not interpret beyond a general curiosity and genuine welcome. I pulled my eyes away to look to Velanna; if this halla had a name, I wanted to know it. She was beautiful and seemed so kind; I would gladly call her by name, if only I knew it.

Velanna clenched her jaw and crossed her arms. “Yes, but I do not know it. I was… never very good with the halla. I do not know why she came to me now. What good could I do her? I have no clan.” The last sentence was said just a touch too easily, and I wondered what that meant.

Neria hummed. She and I exchanged glances; she asked me silently for advice, and I gave a small smile. She interpreted it rightly. “Well, Vigil’s Keep has stables and land for roaming. She could come with us, if she wants.”

The halla perked up, turning to Neria with attentive ears. “We don’t have a halla keeper,” Neria continued, this time speaking directly to the halla, “but we have good stable boys and a groundskeeper who would be happy to learn, and you would be safer with us than out here.”

The halla snorted, and Littlefoot yipped happily. “I think we have a new friend,” I interpreted, and Littlefoot turned to wag his tail at me. I smiled indulgently at him; he seemed so glad for this. Perhaps he missed Dracula and Stellaluna more than I had thought. If the halla became his friend, I was sure he’d be happy for it. He certainly seemed willing.

“Can I ride ‘er?” Oghren asked. Velanna groaned, and as we began walking the path to Vigil’s Keep once more, she explained to him, quite haughtily but in detail usually reserved for the patient, just how the relationship between Dalish clans and their halla worked. I smiled almost the whole way back, and Littlefoot trotted along next to his newfound friend.

 

When we got back, Castor was visibly relieved to see us. “Thank the Maker,” he sighed, leaning against the railing of the stairs leading to the rooms. “I was starting to worry. Darrien made me promise to wait until morning to send out a search party. Probably a good thing.”

“Definitely a good thing,” Neria corrected, then gestured at Velanna. “Velann, this is Warden-Commander Castor Cousland. Castor, this is Velanna. She—oh, I’ll tell you the details in the morning, alright? She’s a recruit. I was thinking I’d give her one of the spare beds in a room that isn’t shared with human men and drunk dwarves.”

Castor snickered, and Oghren grumbled something. “Yeah, that sounds good to me. I think we can probably put her in the same room as Sigrun. Coincidentally, I found a recruit in that mess what’s his face pointed me to. But, yes, details in the morning. It’s late and all that.”

“You should also probably know that we brought back a halla,” Neria said.

“A what?”

“A halla, did you not hear her?” Velanna huffed, obviously unimpressed with our shemlen commander.

Taking pity on him, and knowing he’d likely forgotten, I spoke up for Castor, “We saw halla when we were with the Dalish in the Brecilian forest, do you remember? The white creatures with beautiful horns.”

“Oh, right.” Castor dragged a hand over his face. “Sorry, I’ve been… It was a long day. A very long day. I’m a bit… distracted. I do remember the halla, though, and as long as you think it’s alright and as long as it can be tended to safely, I don’t mind.” He sighed and winced. His ribs had healed, thanks in no small part to the wonders of magic, but there was some trace of the Archdemon that even the best healers couldn’t fix. The scar over my shoulder ached in sympathy.

Neria pursed her lips at him. “You should sleep, Castor.” He rolled his eyes, and she crossed her arms. “I mean it. If your day was as long as mine was—and I’m starting to think that’s the case—then you need it. And you know there’s another court day schedule for tomorrow. You need to be at your best. Those nobles will look for any weakness, even if you were once one of them.”

I hid my wince at the mention of court. I had forgotten about that, and while I did not look forward to it, I was glad for the reminder. I had yet to be asked to interact with the political side of things, with the parts of Amaranthine that blurred from Grey Warden matters into nobility matters, and I had no wish to begin. There wasn’t anything that I could remember that would help. People made me nervous. People that would certainly be watching my every move made me even more nervous.

I made a mental note to spend the day outside. Perhaps I would spend it with the halla.

Castor groaned and flapped a hand in Neria’s direction, breaking my thoughts. “Don’t remind me. Ugh, Bann Esmerelle is insufferable. Did you know she’s actually sent me letters?”

“Castor.”

“Right, sleeping. Okay, _mother,_ I’m off to bed. Sleep well, you lot.” And then he was gone, heading back up the stairs with a half-wave over his shoulder. Oghren excused himself as well (or, at least, mumbled something to the point of also going to sleep) and headed up.

“I’ll show Velanna to her room,” Neria said, putting a hand on my arm. “You go on.” I smiled and nodded, and murmured only a quiet good-night before following my commander’s lead up the keep’s stairs. I heard Neria speaking quietly to Velanna behind me, and deliberately tuned out her voice enough that I would not strain to follow the conversation.

I barely managed to take off my armor and run a toothbrush over my teeth before I was collapsing in bed. Though I had arguably spent a good portion of the day in some kind of enchanted sleep thanks to the Architect, I was still exhausted, and welcomed the sight of my bed like a lover coming home. Or something. I was too tired to come up with a better analogy, and too tired to worry of the dreams the Fade might hold for me.

 

Nightmares of darkspawn dogged my sleep. The Architect loomed in the shadows, and next to him writhed a broodmother. The Mother, probably, though I could not say if I dreamt of her from my own memories or from her proximity. The darkspawn were not in the keep anymore—Castor said he’d cleared them out of even the lowest levels—but still I could feel them at the very edges of my mind. They were out there, and they were not leaving.

But dawn’s bright fingers lifted their shadows from my sleep and prompted me to wakefulness. Before, I had never been an early riser, but it would seem that now I was destined to be. I couldn’t remember the last time I slept in without an injury confining me to the Fade.

Littlefoot yawned as I pushed myself out of bed. Neria was still asleep. I hadn’t heard her come back last night, but I wasn’t surprised. She could be quiet when she wanted, and I was a deep sleeper. I tried to return the favor as I changed into the casual robes I owned. They were still standard Warden issue, but at least they were more comfortable than the armor.

In the hallway, I bumped into Anders. “Good morning!” he greeted, smiling at me. “Good to see you’re alright. The commander was worried when you lot weren’t here when we got back.”

“We ran into some… trouble,” I hedged. “I, um, I’d rather not explain it over and over, so…”

He sighed and waved a hand. “Oh, fine, I’ll wait. But you will tell me, won’t you? I’ll tell you what we ran into. It was disgusting.” He pulled a face, shivering for emphasis.

“Broodmothers always are,” I murmured, offhand, and wandered to the mess hall. Behind me, I could hear him start to ask what I’d meant by that, but another voice interrupted him. I’d have to explain later, it seemed.

Or not so much later. Castor caught up with me as I was finishing my meal, asking me to wait just a while longer. “I’m having everyone meet here so we can discuss what happened yesterday. It seems like there’s a lot going on, and I’d rather get it out with before the nobles come. Hopefully I won’t be worrying about it all day that way.”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” I warned, and he just groaned.

It took ten minutes for everyone to be assembled, but they all came—even Sigrun and Velanna. Introductions were made quickly, and then the reports began. Castor went first, telling us how they’d run into Sigrun and she’d lead them into an old thaig. He explained the darkspawn that seemed to be fighting amongst each other, the mentions of the Mother and the First, and how even more darkspawn were talking. “And then there were broodmothers, but we killed them easily thanks to a well-placed and very rusted… something or other.”

“And the commander offered me a place in the Wardens!” Sigrun announced, grinning at us. “I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but I really do hope it’s not always this exciting.”

“We wouldn’t know,” Darrien said, rubbing his head. “We’ve only been Wardens since the start of the Blight, and this was supposed to be our start of normalcy. Or whatever counts as normal for Wardens. I really hope this isn’t it.” He snorted, though, as if he wasn’t sure he believed anything was normal for Grey Wardens.

“That’s reassuring.” Anders was very good at sarcasm.

“Well, it sounds like your adventure has at least something in common with ours,” Neria began, and then she relayed our own ‘adventure.’ Castor’s fingers started drumming the moment she mentioned the Architect, and he got a look on his face like he wished he’d gone there instead.

Either way, he had no problems with welcoming Velanna into the order, though he did warn that they wouldn’t be able to complete the Joining until after the nobles had left. If either Velanna or Sigrun found this unusual, neither said a word.

Castor had a lot to think about. I had little I could tell him, but I did give him something. I waited for the others to disperse, first; Castor seemed disinclined to leave. Perhaps he expected I had more to say that I was unprepared to announce to everyone. “Castor,” I said, quietly enough that no one could eavesdrop.

He lifted his eyes to meet mine. “What do you know?”

I took a deep breath. “The Architect is… Well, he is precisely what he says he is, but he is also certainly not. He is a darkspawn, this much is true. But he… He’s also…” How could I say this? Would he believe me? “Very ancient. I don’t know the details, but you must know that he could be a very controversial subject, should his true nature come to light.”

Castor narrowed his eyes. “I believe you, Vir’era. You have not led wrong yet. What is he? Beyond darkspawn, beyond simply being ancient. Is he a ghoul?”

I swallowed. “He is one of the first darkspawn. Not that he seems to know or recall this.”

“The first darkspawn?” His voice went low, barely audible. “Vee… Do you know what you’re saying? What you’re claiming, it… That could change everything. Forever.”

Shit. Shit, shit, shit, had I just made a mistake? My heart pounded. I felt tears welling. “I know,” I whispered, all the sound gone from me. “I know what it means. But I don’t know the whole of it. I know only that he is—or was—a magister an-and now… Now he’s tr-trying to change things. A-again. And maybe… I don’t know if he would be… loyal. But he—he knows things, can do things, even if he doesn’t know… And when the next one comes, he might… he might be able to… to help.”

“The next one?”

Fuck. I really didn’t mean to say that. “Not a Blight! But another…”

“Another like the Architect.” Castor clenched his fists and growled quietly. “And you can’t stop him from coming, or else I know you would be trying to.” His eyes flashed. I didn’t dare tell him that I knew how Corypheus would be released, that I knew of one way to prevent it. The death that way would cause, the complete uncertainty I’d have, the things it would change… it was not worth it. However terrible Corypheus was, I knew how to defeat him.

“I can’t say more.” I wished that I could. I wished I could tell someone else. Let it be their responsibility for a while. This was a burden, not a gift, and I didn’t know if I was the right one to bear it.

Castor nodded. “I trust you.” He sighed. “As much as I’d like to know the future, I cannot let that change how I see the present. If I know anything more I’ll probably spend too much time worrying about that and not enough making sure everything is fine now. Which it isn’t. Obviously.”

I shrugged. We sat in silence a while longer, until at last he stood and bade me farewell. He had nobles to greet. I waited for the door to close behind him, and as soon as I heard it shut, I stood. Looking down at Littlefoot, who panted happily up at me, I figured I may as well visit the halla from yesterday. Even if she could do nothing for me, Littlefoot would enjoy seeing her again, and she could probably use the company.

 

I spent the morning with the halla and Littlefoot. They played, giving chase around the small paddock that the groundskeeper, Samuel, had given the halla. Samuel was an elf, and he asked me about halla while we watched them play in the midmorning light. “I don’t know much about their keeping,” I admitted, ducking my head. “I am good with animals, but I was a Second. I spent more time studying magic and history than halla.”

“A pity,” he replied. “But I suppose it cannot be helped. I’ll ask around and see if I can’t find out more from someone else.”

“Please do,” I said, leaning against the wooden fence. “She deserves to be treated well, I think.” He hummed, and we stood together a while more before he excused himself to take care of his duties once more.

Not long after, Nathaniel took his place. “Samuel told me you were here,” he told me.

I glanced at him. “I prefer animals to stuffy nobles.”

He laughed. “I think I would agree, if I were Dalish.” A beat. “Are all halla so very white, or is this one special?”

I hummed. “Most are. I do think she’s a bit whiter than usual, but halla don’t have much color variation. You will never see a brown halla, at any rate.” I didn’t bring up the golden halla. Not that it was so specifically a Dalish secret, but… I felt no need to. I wasn’t sure if he would welcome a lesson.

“I see.” He considered the information. “Castor tells me you are a shapeshifter. I have seen you sparring with your mabari in the mornings, as a mabari yourself. Are you able to control the color of your fur when you shift?”

I blinked. I hadn’t expected that question. “No. I don’t know what decides the color I am when I shift, but it isn’t me. Why?”

“No reason in particular. Your fur’s a different color from Littlefoot’s, and I just wanted to know if that was intentional.” Ah. This was new information; I knew mabari had some color differentiation (Littlefoot was much darker than either Dracula or Stellaluna), but I had not thought to find out what color I was. Not like I had done when I first became a cat.

Littlefoot came and laid by my feet, panting from the exertion of running around for so long. The halla, apparently comfortable with my presence, did the same, letting out a long sigh. I laughed at the sound, and heard Nathaniel’s voice join mine. The halla blinked up at me, and I could have sworn she was smiling. “You could use a name,” I murmured to her, and she nodded at me.

It stunned me, actually. I didn’t know how much she understood—I knew the halla were quite intelligent, but so were mabari. Could she understand as much as Littlefoot? Could she understand more? I didn’t know. Perhaps that was why the Dalish kept halla and allowed them to guide the aravels, though. It would make sense.

“What sort of name do halla normally have?” Nathaniel asked, surprising me once again. I looked at him with wide eyes and shrugged.

“Whatever suits them, I think.” I tugged on my braid, and looked to the halla. “Perhaps… Revas? Suledin? …Seranni?” The halla looked more unimpressed with each syllable. “Sulahn?” She yawned.

Nathaniel leaned in closer. “Those are elven words?”

I nodded. “Yes. Perhaps… something not elven?” At this, the halla looked up at me expectantly. But I was at a loss. “I don’t know.”

“I suppose Weiss would be a bit too on the nose?” She blinked at Nathaniel, and I considered the word. He probably thought of it from Weisshaupt. If it still meant white, as I thought it did, then it would be more a descriptor than a name.

“Weiss would be odd. But… There is a flower. Edelweiss.” She bleated, then, a small sound, and nudged my leg. “Oh? Shall that be your name then, Edelweiss?”

She bleated again.


	4. letters

[A letter on off-colored paper, rolled into a tight scroll. Red wax stamped with the seal of Ferelden holds it shut. It is addressed as such: _Vir’era Sabrae, Grey Warden of Vigil’s Keep, Amaranthine._ ]

Vir’era,

Are you well? You seemed ill at ease when I left you with the shemlen. Ir abelas, lethallin, but I couldn’t stay with them. They would praise me and disparage the elvhen in the same breath. It was… not something I could deal with. But I know you said you had to stay, so I could not take that from you. It is your choice, and though I cannot understand it, I will respect it. At least at the Keep you will have consistent surroundings and friends close by. That will help, won’t it? With your troubles?

Zevran insists I give you his greetings, as well. He says he misses your songs. He wouldn’t admit such a thing, but I am certain that means he misses you. Send everyone our regards.

Antiva is hotter than I expected. Zevran seems to find this funny. The breeze brings cool air, at least, even if it does smell like fish. I thought he was joking when he said that Antiva smelled like leather and rotting fish, but it is true. I don’t know if it is better or worse than wet dog.

If you write to me, send the letters to The Perfumed Spring, addressed to me. If you wish to write Zevran, please also address it to me, though I would tell you that we will both be reading all the mail, because I don’t think Zevran feels any great need to restrain himself from my letters, and he enjoys reading out loud to make fun of what the material says. (Except he has assured me he would never make fun of your writing.) At any rate, they don't know my name here yet, but they do know his, and that is not to our benefit at the moment.

I will not tell you just what we are doing. I think you know it. Don’t worry, lethallin. We will be safe. And always know that you are welcome to find me if ever you change your mind about staying among the shemlen. I will always have space for you.

May the Dread Wolf never catch your scent.

Theron Mahariel, 9:31 Dragon

 

[An answer, on simple paper with even writing, folded thrice and sealed with blue wax and the Grey Warden crest. Addressed: _Theron Mahariel. The Perfumed Spring, Antiva City._ ]

Theron,

I am so very glad to hear from you. I was worried. Perhaps unnecessarily, but I was worried all the same. Though I do think you and Zevran are more than capable of taking care of yourselves—and each other. Please, do take care of each other. You are both precious friends to me. I would hate very much to lose either of you.

Things in Amaranthine are… far from ideal, I confess. The darkspawn have not left the way they were meant to, and, worse, it seems there are to bands of the creatures. Some can even talk. I know more, but for fear of this letter being intercepted, I shall spare you the details. Know that it is beyond unusual, and certainly beyond coincidence. But we can take care of it. We must. It will not be easy, I don’t think, but it will be done. (Though, after the Archdemon, perhaps this will seem easier.)

I myself am adjusting as well as can be expected. It isn’t easy, but these things never are. I have so much on my mind that sometimes it’s hard to find a quiet moment for myself. Littlefoot has been helping, though. He always does. He and I share a room with Neria. There would have been other Wardens with us, but… Well, suffice to say that they died as all Wardens are destined to, and very bravely in that.

At the Keep, we’ve been successful as yet in our recruiting for more Wardens. Or, at least, as successful as can be expected. Only one has died in the Joining so far. This is a good sign, I hope. Funnily enough, we’ve even recruited—or maybe conscripted—Nathaniel Howe, Arl Howe’s son. He doesn’t seem to know what to make of us just yet, but I think he’ll come around. Castor seems to like him so far, and if Castor can see past the whole ‘son of Rendon Howe’ bit, I don’t see why the rest won’t. (Except maybe Darrien, but he is ever an exception.)

Oghren’s actually joined us, too. He passed his Joining and everything. He’ll make a good Warden, I think. Maybe not perfect, but he’s certainly dedicated, and no one can doubt he’s got the skill for it. He’s oddly popular among the Keep’s soldiers, actually, though. I can’t say so much for the other Wardens. They’ll grow to like him, though. He’s like a fungus that way. A smelly, boozy fungus.

One of our new recruits is Dalish, actually. Her name is Velanna—she is was her clan’s First. While the circumstances behind her recruitment are less than ideal—are frankly very sad—she seems eager. This is good, I hope. Her whole clan was killed by the darkspawn. At least this should give her a new purpose, if only for a while.

We found one of the halla from her clan, too. Or perhaps she found us? I don’t know. If there are other halla, we have not seen them yet. This one seemed to want to come with us, and we could hardly refuse such a kind request. Velanna said she did not know the halla’s name, and did not seem inclined to give a new one. I have named her Edelweiss, for the flower. She is as white as it, so I think it fits.

Velanna has yet to decide how she feels about the shemlen here, but at least Castor does not take it as an insult when she calls him such. (The soldiers are a different story, but they are learning.) I think it’s a good thing you and I already have answered so many of Neria’s questions about the Dalish, or Velanna would be forced to contend with that, and I don’t know that she’d take it kindly.

But there is much for us to do, and much to learn about the talking darkspawn. Write me again, please. It helps to hear from people.

Dareth shiral, lethallin.

Vir’era Sabrae, 9:31 Dragon 

 

[A letter on much cleaner parchment, folded neatly and sealed with gold wax and the seal of Ferelden. The handwriting is impeccable. Addressed: _Warden Vir’era Sabrae, Vigil’s Keep. 9:31 Dragon._ ]

Warden Vir’era Sabrae:

Vee,

So, I promised you I’d write, didn’t I? Except I haven’t yet, because you were actually here for so long that it wouldn’t felt silly to write while you were here, so for a while I forgot. But then today, my wife (I love writing and saying and thinking that) was writing her brother, and I remembered that I had someone to write to, too.

Anyways, how are you doing? Is it better at the Keep than it was here at court? I bet it is. Don’t tell anyone, but I really don’t like court. Capella’s better at it, anyhow, and she seems to find it almost fun, so I let her take care of it most of the time. But, well… it is better when she’s around. Not as bad as I’d thought it would be, when Arl Eamon first said I should take the throne. Still not as fun as kicking in darkspawn skulls, though!

Say, have you heard from Theron or Daylen? Anya sent me a letter—well, sent Capella a letter that I read, too, but I haven’t heard a peep from our Hero of Ferelden or Daylen. I wonder if Daylen’s had any luck trying to find Morrigan? Me, I say we leave her alone. That’s obviously what she wants—she said as much, didn’t she? But I can’t say I blame him. If Capella tried the same thing—and if I didn’t have a kingdom to run—I can’t say I wouldn’t do something similar. Or at least similarly stupid.

I know I missed the fight to recover Vigil’s Keep by probably minutes, but are there any darkspawn still there? I’ve heard of a lot of trouble on the Pilgrim’s Path, but was told that “the Warden-Commander will deal with it,” because it’s technically happening in his arling (nevermind that I’m the king so his arling is part of my kingdom, but there’s only so much you can do even as king). Is it also darkspawn there? Maker, I hope not. Shouldn’t they be disappearing now? The Blight’s over. I don’t like it. Do you know what’s going on? Not sure I want to know, but I feel like I should. And even if I don’t know, I’d feel better if you did.

I’m being summoned now, and this letter’s getting long enough as is. Best of luck, my friend!

Alistair, 9:31 Dragon

PS: Told you I have nice handwriting!  
PPS: My dear wife says to tell you hello.

 

[A reply, on simple paper, folded thrice and sealed with blue wax and the crest of the Grey Wardens. Addressed: _King Alistair Theirin, Denerim Royal Palace._ ]

Alistair,

Or should I address this to King Alistair now? I may be your friend, but the intricacies of shemlen politics are fickle even then. Do let me know how best to address my letters to you. I don’t need people spreading even more rumors about “savage Dalish.” My people have enough to worry about without me adding to their problems. But enough of that!

I’m not sure I believe that you actually wrote that letter. Bastard or not, king or not, I don’t know that I’m entirely convinced you, of all people, have such nice handwriting. You’ll just have to write me again and prove me wrong. After all, how do I know you didn’t use a scribe? That’s what kings do, isn’t it?

I’d say I’m surprised at you preferring to fight darkspawn over attending court, but I’m not in the habit of lying. Besides, I think I agree, at least for the most part. I’d really rather not do either, but if a choice must be made, I’m actually better at fighting darkspawn than making nice with nobles. Castor hasn’t made me do much just yet, for which I’m endlessly thankful. The soldiers mostly ignore me, but that’s better than being called knife-ear within hearing range.

But let’s think on happier things! I haven’t heard from Daylen, which is hardly a surprise—I think he’d write Neria if he wrote any of us—but I have gotten a letter from Theron. He and Zevran are doing well, from the sounds of it, and he’s very much happier away from anywhere that he might readily be recognizable. He does not seem to enjoy the fame that has come with being the Warden who killed the Archdemon, and I can hardly blame him. Very few shemlen care for our people at all. There is good reason to go into hiding. For this, I shall ask him before I share a method of contact, even with friends. I would like to respect his privacy as much as I am able. I hope you don’t mind.

There were some darkspawn still underneath the Keep—it is very old and its cellars are very deep—but Castor assures me that they’ve been dealt with. Apparently he took care of that while I was learning the layout of the building—it’s very large. There are still darkspawn running rampant throughout the rest of the arling, though. The problems in the Wending Wood began due to the darkspawn, but it should be safe now. Neria, Oghren, Littlefoot, and I have just come back from dealing with that, at any rate. I shall spare you the gruesome details, but you should know at least this: these darkspawn can speak. Or some can, at least. They’re capable of higher thought, and the creature behind it all… Well. He’s something many would not believe. He is known as the Architect. More than that, I dare not say. Warden secrets and all.

Know that we will deal with this all. Everything will—no, to say it will be fine would be a lie, but things will happen as they must. You and Capella need only worry about the court. Do be safe, and write frequently.

Vir’era Sabrae, 9:31 Dragon

 

[A letter on plain paper, folded hurriedly and sealed with uncolored wax. There is no stamp. Addressed: _Vir’era Sabrae, Vigil’s Keep_.]

Vir’era,

The darkspawn are all gone from here, but we’ve heard about the attacks in the north. It sounds bad. Darkspawn are bad enough as is. They don’t need to be organized! I hope you find out whoever’s behind this. Some maleficar or something maybe. Maker keep you safe. Or whoever—the Dalish don’t believe in the Maker, right? Who would you pray to for safety? I’ll pray to the Maker all the same, but there’s nothing wrong with better understanding a friend, right? Seems to me you need all the protection you can get.

People here appreciate that the Warden-Commander himself’s going to be looking into it all, even if they’re not directly affected. It’s the spirit of the thing. Matthias even says he remembers him. Amalia, too. Apparently Ser Cousland made an impact. That’s good, right? Better be. They don’t seem to remember much about you, though. Most people around here don’t pay as much mind as they maybe should to elves. Sorry to say I’ve probably done the same.

I heard the new king & queen are planning to make a trip around Ferelden to be all officially known to their subjects or whatever. Is it true? Are they nice? You’ve said you think King Alistair will be a good king, but that doesn’t tell me if he’s a good person, and I don’t know anything about the queen except that she’s the Warden-Commander’s sister.

Write soon and stay safe.

Mia Rutherford, 9:31 Dragon

 

[A reply, folded thrice and stamped with the Grey Warden seal over blue wax. Addressed: _Mia Rutherford, Honnleath_.]

Mia,

Thank you for the prayers. I’m fine, and you needn’t worry so much, but it’s nice to know. Things aren’t all that great here, and these darkspawn are too smart, but I’m as safe as I can expect, for now. I am a Grey Warden, after all. This is my duty. Everyone has their own duties, you know.

Dalish don’t pray to the Maker, no. While there may be some who worship him alongside our gods, they are very few, as we do have our own pantheon. Like the Maker, they are no longer with us, though it is for very different reasons. I won’t bore you with the details, but if you wish to know more, I would be more than happy to describe to you some of the basics of our religion. But to answer your question: when I ask for protection, I pray to Mythal, as she is our goddess of protection, among other things.

But Vigil’s Keep is safe enough. We’re working to make it safer—it’s hard, of course. We’re stretched thin as it is, and the banns are all competing for Castor’s approval, for our troops to protect their lands or their goods. I don’t think we have enough people. Not yet, anyway. Some people have joined us as soldiers, but there are precious few willing to become Wardens, even with all the darkspawn still running around.

Castor is becoming a bit desperate, I think. If there are any among those you know, or any passing through Honnleath, any who are willing to join us, willing to devote their lives to this cause, I implore you to send them here. We could even send coin if it would help their arrival. It doesn’t matter who. The Wardens accept everyone. Humans, dwarves, elves, mages. I have yet to see a qunari Warden, but I see no reason why not. We accept even criminals.

That said, we do have a few new recruits. We’ve two mages—one apostate and one Dalish. They are Anders and Velanna, respectively. There is also a dwarf from the Legion of the Dead, Sigrun, and Oghren has joined our order—he’d fought with us in the Blight. I guess he didn’t like the idea of returning to Orzammar or settling down with Felsi, his paramour. And… we also have Nathaniel Howe. Vigil’s Keep used to be his home, until Arl Howe fucked that up. Nathaniel’s nice, though. Nothing like his father.

I do think Alistair and Capella will be starting their tour soon, yes, though I don’t know when. With all the troublesome activity on the Pilgrim’s Path, they may have decided to delay a while, at least until the darkspawn are less of a threat. It wouldn’t do for the king to be attacked so soon after taking the throne, after all.

As for if they’re nice… Well, Alistair is very nice. I’m not sure he’s entirely capable of truly being mean, though that’s not to say that he isn’t occasionally snarky. I’m sure he’ll be very kind about it all. Perhaps a bit awkward, as he never expected to become king, but he’s surprised me before. He seems to be taking to the role quite well, even if he complains about being ‘cooped up.’

Capella is a rather different matter. That’s not to say she’s unkind at all; I simply mean to say that she is very much nobility. She’s always been kind to me, and she does not seem to treat people as lesser based on their status or race. But she is very cunning, and I think she could make anyone do anything if only she said the right words—and she almost always does. She may not seem very approachable, and if anyone insults Alistair she will decimate them appropriately, but she is a good person.

I hope all is going well with your reconstruction efforts.

Vir’era Sabrae, 9:31 Dragon

PS: I do not know if you have been told, and I don’t know if you’ve tried to send letters yet, but I believe Cullen will be in or on his way to Kirkwall by now. I’m not sure it’s wise yet to write to him, but I thought you would want to know.

 

[A letter on fine parchment. The writing is sloppy and there are occasional ink blots. Folded painfully neatly, it is sealed in red wax with the Aeducan crest and addressed: _Warden Sabrae, Vigil’s Keep, Amaranthine._ ]

Vee,

Hey. How’s it going up there on the surface? I heard the darkspawn haven’t quite let, which doesn’t sound right, but how would I know? What I do know’s that they aren’t back in the Deep Roads yet. At least, not as much as before the Blight, or so the Legion of the Dead says. They don’t seem too worried about it, but I’m not sure if that’s a good indication or what. It’s not like they really care much about the surface anyway. I mean, I didn’t either until I became a Warden, so it makes sense.

Being in Orzammar’s royal palace is weird. Not sure that I like it. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m glad Rica’s okay and her kid’s a healthy baby, but it just… doesn’t feel like home. Not that I expect Dust Town would be much better. My mom’s in the palace, too, and she’s even stopped drinking. Hasn’t had a drop since I’ve been back, maybe even before that. I’m happy for her and shit, but it doesn’t feel real. She’s been drunk about as long as I can remember, and Rica… I just don’t know what to do with myself.

Anya’s good, though. She and Bhelen seem to have made up. At least, they haven’t fought that I know of, and he hasn’t tried to kill her again. He can’t stop singing her praises. It’s a little disconcerting, to be honest. But what can I do? She seems mostly happy here. Happier than I’ve ever seen her, though I don’t know if using the Blight’s really a good thing to compare to. Either way, I’m not about to take her away from this just because I can’t handle court. Deshyrs fucking bow to me, Vir’era. They used to spit on me, and now they bow. It’s enough to give a man whiplash. I am not a fan.

But enough of my whining. (Sorry. I’m writing to have at least something to do that seems productive and lets me not talk to any weird-ass nobles for a while, because Rica’s busy and Anya’s talking with Bhelen.)

How’s Littlefoot? I admit, I miss those dogs. Do you think I could get one of my own? I heard before we left that some group or another was wanting Dracula for breeding. Did Littlefoot go, too? Hope not. Seems to me like you need him more most of the time, and he sure doesn’t like to leave you alone too long. (It was weird how he even followed you to piss, okay.)

I haven’t had any darkspawn dreams (which means no dreams, thank the ancestors) since the Blight ended. I think it’s a relief, really. Dwarves just aren’t meant to dream. We’re not. There’s a lot of weird shit that happens for being a Warden, but that just might be the weirdest for me.

I’m running out of shit to talk about. I really don’t want to give up my one good excuse, though. Maybe I’ll write Capella, too. And… everyone else. Or, well, not Daylen or Theron or Morrigan or Zevran. I don’t know where they are. Hey, do you know? I’m asking for reasons.

Maybe I’ll even write Sten. Do the Qunari write letters?

Give Littlefoot a belly-rub from me if you can.

Faren, 9:31 Dragon

_PS: Faren glossed over it some, but something’s definitely not right with the darkspawn. Let us know what you find out. If you learn anything. I’ll do the same._

_Best of luck._

_Anya_

 

[An answer on simple paper, folded thrice and held shut with blue wax, sealed with the Grey Warden crest. Addressed: _Anya Aeducan & Faren Brosca, Orzammar Royal Palace._]

Anya & Faren,

The darkspawn have most certainly not left the surface yet. Or, at least, most haven’t. They’ve been congregating around Amaranthine and wreaking havoc. No one’s particularly happy about it, but if there’s anything good to have come of this, it’s that the locals are more accepting (for now) of the Grey Warden presence. They’re still not too happy with us—Castor says that some of the banns lost a lot with Howe’s death—but even they can admit that Grey Wardens are generally the go-to people for killing darkspawn. (On the surface, anyway, which is all they care about.)

Littlefoot is still with me, by the way. Castor helped me to make sure I could keep him. He misses you, Faren. (Littlefoot, that is.) I think you were the best to play with, if I’m reading my dog right. I spoke to Castor, who said he got your letter but may not have time to write back for a while, and he seems to believe you could get a mabari. He told me that part of the agreement he worked out with the breeders who are taking care of Dracula is that he gets at least one puppy from each litter. Since I think he wants them for the Wardens, anyway, I see no reason why you wouldn’t be able to convince him to let you have one—he just might ask that you come to Vigil’s Keep first. Not a bad deal, on the whole, unless you were planning on staying in Orzammar.

I’ve still heard whispers of people calling me knife-ear or even rabbit, but since it hasn’t been to my face, I’ve decided to ignore it. I’m just glad they mostly ignore me. I wouldn’t know what to do if they suddenly started bowing at me. For that, Faren, you have my sympathy.

Don’t worry too much about the darkspawn. We’ve got it under control. Or we will, anyway. Eventually. There’s something big going on, too big to safely describe in letters, but we can handle it. Not that we don’t want you back; we’d welcome you back with open arms for certain. But you don’t need to feel any pressure to return. I have confidence in us.

Dareth shiral.

Vir’era Sabrae, 9:31 Dragon

 

[A letter which was started and restarted several times, sealed with the blue wax and Grey Warden crest. Addressed: _For Sten of the Beresaad, who accompanied the Wardens of Ferelden During the Fifth Blight, Seheron._ ]

Sten,

I hope this letter finds you well and brings you no trouble. I am unfamiliar with most ways of the Qun, as you know, so I hope I have not caused any offense with this. If there is a different way that I should address letters to you, or if I should not write to you, I ask only that you let me know, and I shall abide by that.

It has been two months already since you left to return to Seheron. I don’t know how long such a trip is, but I do hope it went well and that you met no trouble on your way. I’m not sure how much you have heard of what has happened, so I’ll try to summarize it for you.

Castor has been named Warden-Commander of Ferelden, and Capella has been crowned Queen. Castor named Neria as his second in command, the Warden-Constable. Anya and Faren are back in Orzammar, though I don’t think they’ll be there much longer. Only Darrien, Oghren, and I have followed Castor and Neria to Vigil’s Keep. And Littlefoot, of course, but I think that is a given, as he goes where I go.

There is still a great amount of trouble with the darkspawn here. I don’t know what exactly is happening, and what I do know I do not feel secure in writing down. I would tell you if I could safely say that this letter would only be read by those I trust, but I do not know if it will be safe on the long passage to Seheron. I fear what the darkspawn are planning, though, and they are more organized than they should be after a Blight.

I know it is your duty to tell your Arishok and other leaders anything you know of the Blight in Ferelden, and I accept this. I do not ask that you hide anything I tell you. If there are things which must be hidden, then I will not be able to tell you, but that is because you are not a Grey Warden, and we must keep some secrets. I’m sure you can understand this, even if it is an often unpleasant truth.

Things are going to be changing a lot in the next few years: this I know for certain, and I can say with confidence. Prepare yourself.

Panahedan.

Vir’era Sabrae, 9:31 Dragon

 

[A letter similarly started and altered numerous times, sealed with blue wax and the crest of the Grey Wardens. Addressed: _Arl Eamon Guerrin, Denerim Royal Palace._ ]

Arl Eamon,

I hope all is well with you and your family. I did not spend much time speaking with you in person, but the struggles you and yours have faced are not something I can easily forget. I find I am much more confident on paper, and I hope you will excuse me for not speaking more until now.

I know it will take time for Redcliffe to recover, but I hope you make sure Connor knows he is not to blame for what happened. It was the fault of Rendon Howe and no one else; even Jowan was but a pawn in the games of people with greater machinations. If there is anything I can do to help with the reconstruction or with Connor, you need only ask. I will do whatever is in my power, though I must admit I am capable of precious little at the moment.

I have heard that the darkspawn have left your arling, which is certainly good news. They congregate now in the north, but that is where we Wardens are, and so we can take care of them with ease.

It is important, I think, that I ask you to remind Capella that it is Alistair who inherited the throne, even if she is queen. She is very strong-willed, and while I do not doubt that Alistair will always do what he thinks is best for all, I also know that Capella is very convincing. Directly confronting her will do nothing, of course, but if you ensure that she helps Alistair to learn how to rule as often as she does the ruling, I think the whole country will benefit. They will make a very strong pair, but only if they can find balance.

Perhaps I should not ask such a thing of you, and perhaps you already planned to carry through with that, but I needed to be certain that it would happen in a good way. I could think of no one else who I would trust to temper Capella with the best interests of Alistair and Ferelden at heart; I certainly could not ask Anora, nor is there anyone else at court who would dare such a thing without ulterior motives. But you, I think, are a very trustworthy person, and you do wish for only the best for Ferelden, so I find myself relying on you. I hope I do not ask too much or impose myself.

May Redcliffe flourish again.

Warden Vir’era Sabrae, 9:31 Dragon

 

[A letter nearly not written. The words are painstakingly neat, and the simple paper is devoid of blots or imperfections. Folded thrice, it is closed with blue wax and the seal of the Grey Wardens. Addressed: _Connor Guerrin, Circle of Magi at Kinloch Hold._ ]

Connor,

I don’t know if you remember me. I am Vir’era, one of the Grey Wardens who came to help Redcliffe during the Blight. I heard you had been taken to the Circle, and I thought you may like to have letters from people other than your parents.

I do not know how the Circle works, I confess; I am Dalish, and have never lived in a Circle. But two of my good friends grew up in Kinloch Hold, and while it has suffered a terrible loss during the Blight, they assure me that First Enchanter Irving is a good man. Neria in particular wishes that I tell make sure you know that you can go to him with any troubles you have; she says that he has always been patient and understanding.

I also want to tell you that I do not think any of what happened at Redcliffe can be blamed upon you. No deaths are your fault, regardless of what anyone else may say. Everything can be laid at the feet of Rendon Howe, and he has already died for his treachery. Perhaps you won’t believe me, but even then, know at least that I do not blame you.

If you need to write to someone outside the Circle, someone who is not your family, I would be happy to receive your letters. I am living in Vigil’s Keep with the rest of the Grey Wardens. If you want to write to someone who has also experienced the Circle firsthand, we have two Circle mages with us, and Neria has expressed interest in helping you however you may need.

I hope you are well, and I hope the Circle treats you well.

Warden Vir’era Sabrae, 9:31 Dragon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _elvish translations_  
>  shemlen - human(s)  
> ir abelas - i'm sorry  
> lethallin - endearment for close friends  
> dareth shiral - safe journey(s)
> 
> _qunlat_  
>  sten - rank in the main qunari forces, a platoon commander. also used as a name  
> beresaad - military scouting unit sent to "answer questions" for the arishok. literally "those who reach ahead"  
> panahedan - goodbye. lit. "take refuge in safety"  
> arishok - military commander and king equivalent


	5. the first

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MERRY CHRISTMAS PEEPS

I hadn’t tried to learn a new form since Denerim, I realized the same afternoon that Castor held court. I had taken my lunch out to eat with Littlefoot and Edelweiss. The halla seemed to appreciate our company, from the way she did not stray far from us. Even when Littlefoot and I sparred, she stayed nearby and watched. Eventually, I sent Littlefoot back into her pen while I practiced magic against dummies.

At some point, Velanna appeared. I saw her in the periphery of my vision, watching me encase a dummy in ice and then blast fire to see how it would crack. (I was testing the fire; could I control the temperature?) Her face was impassive when I caught a glance of it. I wondered what she thought of me.

“You do not know elven magic,” she said, answering my thoughts. Stunned, I nearly dropped my staff. “Or, you practice magic like a Keeper would, but you do not use a Keeper’s spells.”

I swallowed. I didn’t think she would notice. “I… have not tried.”

Her eyes narrowed, and I tried not to shift obviously. “You have not tried? I find that hard to believe. Did your Keeper not teach you more than basic magic?”

I swallowed again, and my throat felt dry. “Um,” I answered, ever so clever.

“You have vallaslin, so you must have been with a clan, and if you were with a clan, you were a First or a Second. A Keeper would not leave to join the Grey Wardens,” she explained, decoding me with things I should have known and should have done.

“I—I was a Second. To Theron’s clan. We, um, we both had to leave, and…”

“But why do you not use a Keeper’s spells?” she pressed. “I have seen you work other magics. Unless your Keeper is the one who taught you to change shape?”

I shook my head. “Morrigan. A, um. Witch of the Wilds.”

Velanna snorted. “Shemlen magic.” I wondered. Morrigan learned from Flemeth—but where had Flemeth learned? Mythal? “But if you were a Second, perhaps you did not have the opportunity. You are still young, are you not?”

“I, um, yes.” Truthfully, I didn’t know how old I was, exactly. I thought I was twenty. Maybe. That’s how old I had been when I was… Before. But almost a year had passed, so maybe I was twenty-one. And maybe I was neither, maybe I was younger or older. I didn’t know how old this body was, if it was the same age or not. I didn’t feel older. (And yet I felt ages old…)

She humphed again. “Then I shall teach you.” She sounded so haughty when she said it, like she was bending over backwards to accommodate me, but I knew this was a precious gift, and I think it showed on my face. Her eyes became softer as I grinned at her, and she even smiled back.

“I would be very grateful,” I said. “Ma serannas, Velanna.”

“We cannot allow any of our history to become forgotten when we already have so little,” she told me instead of directly responding. I just nodded, passively agreeing, and she began her lessons immediately. “First, you must learn to call to the earth…”

She spent the rest of the afternoon helping me to learn the basics of Keeper magic. Something about the magic felt familiar, like when I first tried casting at the start of all this nonsense. I think that little part of me which knew some magic by instinct could also remember this. If Velanna noticed or was impressed, she did not comment, though she did nod in approval whenever I managed something to her standards.

Still, it was only a beginning, and by the time the lords and ladies were filing back through the Keep’s gates, I was growing weary. I begged off further training when the dinner bell rang, and Velanna did not protest. Instead, she joined me for dinner, sitting at my side in the great dining hall. Soldiers milled about, sending us curious glances from time to time. Some did not look pleased, but I did not hear any insults that night.

Of course, it helped that Castor joined us soon enough, bringing with him Neria and Darrien. In fact, as if by some silent call, all the Grey Wardens gathered at the table Velanna and I had chosen. We did not all know each other well just yet, but there was some little thing, some inkling of a kindred spirit that we could sense in each other. (Or maybe it was just the taint.)

Nathaniel sat across from me, Neria on my other side. I noticed Castor deliberately place himself between Nathaniel and Darrien and had to suppress a snicker. Darrien wouldn’t admit to such a thing, but he was doubtlessly angry at Nathaniel on Castor’s behalf. (And, honestly, probably at all Howes.)

Dinner went well at first. And then Velanna… Well.

“So, Vir’era,” she said. “Are you a man or a woman?”

Silence all around. I nearly did a spit-take. Of all the people… Somehow, I had not expected such a question from Velanna. I stared at her and could have sworn I felt the eyes of everyone in the hall on me.

She raised an eyebrow. “What? It is not so strange a question. You sound like a man, yet you stay in the same room as Neria—and I know you are not lovers. Your appearance would not tell me either way. You are the size of a woman. You do not act as either.”

Surprisingly, it was Oghren who broke the stunned looks from everyone’s faces. He laughed, loud enough that he likely could be heard across the entire hall, and gestured with his tankard at Velanna. “You elves can’t even tell each other apart, huh! Now, I know Vee ain’t got a beard like men’re supposed ta have, but I’m told it’s ‘cause he’s an elf, and other’n that, he’s as much a man as any other elf man is, innit he? See, Darrien here’s all surly and tha’ makes it easy. The rest o’ya… Well, I usually got ta wonder m’self, but I guess if even a real elfy-elf can’t tell, I’m doin’ jus’ fine!”

And then he laughed some more. Velanna huffed and rolled her eyes. I heard her mutter something about ‘could have just said he was a man and been done with it,’ but it was a bit hard to hear much beyond the residual horror ringing in my ears.

Certainly, I had little reason to worry among friends, and Velanna’s question had been innocent—if rather bald—but I couldn’t help the quiet little fears. Their sibilant whispers spread like wildfire in my mind, and it was hard to put them out. I didn’t know for certain how Thedas would react if it was confirmed that I was transgender. They didn’t even have a word for it, as far as I was aware. (Except the Qunari. Aqun-athlok.)

Still. Oghren’s defense of me, whether he knew or not, was nice. Perhaps not enough to keep people from wondering (and I knew that would always happen, as it always had), but it helped.

Later, before her Joining, Velanna sought me out and apologized, in her own way. I accepted it, because I knew she had not intended any harm. She didn’t think before speaking. I hoped this would help her learn.

 

In the morning, Castor gathered a few to go to Amaranthine. “Warden Kristoff is still missing,” he said, and I almost smacked my head for my forgetfulness, “so we’re going to search for him or for clues, starting with Amaranthine. Nathaniel, Darrien, Sigrun, if you’d come with me, I’d appreciate it.”

“Ah, Castor?” I asked, and beckoned him to the side. I didn’t need to make my knowledge on this secret, but I grew tired of always causing a scene of it. “I know a little of what happened to Kristoff.”

“Is it good or bad?” He looked apprehensive, and I wished I could tell him it was good.

“Bad for Kristoff,” I admitted. “For us… I don’t know. He, um, he’s dead, but we do still need to find his body. It’s in the Blackmarsh, but I don’t know just where in it. There’s, um, there’s other stuff, too, but… Well, I-I don’t know exactly how to—you’ll see. We just need to find him because of the darkspawn.” I frowned. “Something about darkspawn.”

“Isn’t everything?” he asked, but despite the weary sarcasm, I knew he was thankful for the warning. “Well, I’m sure we can deal with it. It’s our job and all that rot. Would you mind joining us? Kristoff was renting a room in Amaranthine. He may have left more details there, and we can go to the Blackmarsh from there. I’d rather have you around to help with that, since you seem to know something.”

I shrugged. “I’m not sure how much help I’ll be, but alright.”

Castor nodded, and a half hour later we set off, everyone in full gear. Sigrun still wore her Legion of the Dead attire; we hadn’t had time to make Grey Warden armor for her. Nathaniel was lucky enough to be the same size as one of the dead Orlesian Wardens, and had been given that armor. (Or was that bad luck?) And, of course, Castor, Darrien, and I all had our own Warden armors made specifically for us. The perks of being one of the heroes of the Fifth Blight, I suppose.

With my staff strapped to my back, I stood out in the crowded city even more than the rest of our group. Perhaps, if I had a more common staff, it wouldn’t have been true, but as it was, Maleficent drew attention. I hovered around my companions, sticking to Castor or Darrien’s side even when we were not standing in any close formation.

I think Nathaniel noticed this; whether because my nerves spread to him or for other reasons, he stopped straying more than a few steps away by the time we made it into the city proper.

“Hey, Nate,” Castor started, “isn’t that your sister?” He pointed to a dark-haired woman standing outside a bakery, and Nathaniel’s shoulders fell in such a great relief that I could feel it hit me like a wave.

“Delilah!” he called, forgoing propriety. She turned in surprise, and then he ran over to greet her, all need to stick close gone in an instant. They began to speak, and we meandered over, taking our time. There was no need to intrude on a familial reunion.

“Father wanted me to marry the Cousland boy before, but I’m happy here, Nathaniel.” Delilah Howe smiled at her brother, but it felt exasperated.

Castor laughed, drawing attention to us, and waved. “It’s probably for the best that nothing ever came of those talks, really,” he said. “I’m sure you’re lovely, but you’re not my type, and I doubt I’m yours.”

To her credit, Delilah just raised an eyebrow at Castor. “I didn’t realize you would be with my brother, ser.”

“Not with him, but with Darrien,” he answered, and I don’t know if that was what she meant, or if he was just joking, but he took Darrien’s hand and kissed his knuckles regardless.

Delilah just laughed, even as Darrien spluttered, “Dammit, Castor!” Sigrun and I giggled in the background, and Castor winked at his lover.

“I did mean accompanying him, but I suppose it’s good to know that, as well,” Delilah teased, her lips still pulled up in a pretty purple smile. She turned back to her brother, who seemed mostly just amused at the distraction. They spoke again and Sigrun tugged my elbow.

“So, hey, Vee,” she said, and I leaned in to hear the quiet words. “The Commander and Darrien really are together? Like, I wasn’t just imagining things this whole time?”

I wasn’t quite sure how to react to that, but I smiled at her. “They are,” I assured. “They have been for some months now.”

She let out a little whistle. “Wow, nice. Like, actually nice, because then it’s not just because he’s the Commander and Darrien has to, y’know? Also kind of romantic, isn’t it? If they survived the Blight together, I bet they can survive anything.”

I decided against telling her about the Calling. She’d know eventually, but the middle of the Amaranthine market district wasn’t exactly the best spot to drop that kind of bomb. (Though it was a bit romantic, if decidedly depressing, to think that Castor and Darrien may one day face their Callings together.)

We left Nathaniel with his sister, so that he could catch up with her while we investigated Kristoff’s disappearance at the Crown and Lion. This, of course, was hardly difficult. Castor was easily accepted as being in command, and almost everyone in Amaranthine could recognize him from down a street already. The barkeep was perfectly fine with sliding a key over so that we could investigate Kristoff’s room.

Whether it would have been just as easy for an elf, I wasn’t sure. I supposed it didn’t matter. Or, well, it did, but it didn’t matter in the immediate sense, as we were able to do what needed to be done without hassle.

As I had told Castor, Kristoff was in the Blackmarsh. And as Castor had suspected, Kristoff had left a map and a few notes that gave us a smaller area to start our search. Since it was early in the day yet, and Blackmarsh was only a half-hour by horse from Amaranthine proper, he decided we would start our search immediately. I didn’t have any quarrel with it. I didn’t have much I could remember from Blackmarsh beyond Justice, a dragon side quest, and the Fade.

(Perhaps I should have warned them about the Fade.)

 

We collected Nathaniel and our horses and arrived in the Blackmarsh with mostly unconcerned spirits. The marsh itself was as any marsh is, though I hadn’t been to many and could not compare it as such. The only thing out of place at first was how very dark it seemed in the marsh. It was winter now, and though there were clouds in the sky, there were few enough trees in the marsh, and those that were there were bare. Yet still shadows stuck to everything like glue and felt like they oozed through our skin to our souls.

I shivered. My horse let out an answering snort, stomping nervously with her front hooves. Littlefoot whined. For a moment, all was still, and we sat upon our horses at the edge of the marsh, looking and peering in.

But the moment passed, and Castor dismounted, prompting the rest of us to do the same. “The horses won’t do well in the marsh,” he explained, creeping forward nonetheless.

“No one comes this way. All the tales say it’s haunted. We could find a safe place a bit further in and tie them to a tree while we search for Kristoff,” Nathaniel said. He pointed down the overgrown not-road that led further into the marsh. Darrien huffed, but Castor shrugged and nodded.

“Might as well, and it’d be better than leaving them where bandits could find them. C’mon, then.” He led us in, and Nathaniel found a good spot to leave the horses. There was a brief discussion about someone staying to protect them, but it was overruled fairly quickly. The horses weren’t exactly for pleasure riding. They knew what to do. (We left them untied, though, so they could run if they needed. They were trained enough—and spooked enough—to stay until we returned otherwise.)

The Blackmarsh looked smaller with the shadows than it felt as we walked and sloshed through it. A few wolves attacked when we interrupted their meal, but mostly… the entire marsh was very, very still. Not even the slightest of breezes slid through the skeletal trees, and it was that, more than anything, which reminded me that this was a place very close to the Fade.

Of course, it helped when we found an actual tear in the Veil. We couldn’t pass it, not without risking far too much, and so we were forced to leave it alone. (It did not look like a rift, though I wondered how different it was.) Some shades ambushed us as we walked away from it, but they were hardly difficult to deal with.

“Vir’era,” Castor started, as we reached the next tear, but I interrupted him before he could continue.

“I don’t know,” I said. Perhaps a bit too quickly, but when he turned, I just gestured at it. “It’s a tear in the Veil, but even you could tell as much. Exactly what caused it or how long it has been here, I don’t know. I know only that this whole place is… The Veil is very thin here, Castor.”

“Is that why it feels like someone’s about to pour something over my head?” Darrien asked.

I wasn’t sure about his analogy specifically, but I nodded anyways. “It’s thin enough that even non-mages are susceptible.” He grunted and scowled at the ground.

“We should find this Warden and leave quickly, then,” Nathaniel said. “It’s never good to linger where the Veil is thin.”

“Yeah.” Sigrun shook herself a little. “It’s even giving me the heebie-jeebies.”

And if it could affect even a dwarf, I saw my companions realize, it was a very serious problem, indeed. Castor muttered something, maybe a prayer, and we started moving again. I sent a prayer of my own to Mythal. I wondered if she could hear me, and the thought of Flemeth flying to my rescue was amusing enough to distract me from the less pleasant surroundings, if only for a moment.

We found the abandoned town, derelict with its broken walls and caved roofs. Doors hung open if they were there at all, and what few belongings were left held a sticky layer of residue. Marshrot, I decided, though I didn’t know if that was an actual thing or if it simply sounded right because I liked words. Littlefoot sniffed around, sneezing occasionally.

Castor paused at the gates to the Baroness’ mansion. “Is it just me,” he asked, “or is that mansion weirdly… whole?”

I turned to consider it, and our companions gathered around us. “I don’t see as much as a broken window,” Nathaniel observed.

Sigrun tapped the gates. “They’re iron, but they haven’t rusted.”

“That’s just great,” Darrien said. He shifted his weight uneasily, and Littlefoot whined in agreement. I felt goosebumps prickle my flesh.

“The Baroness was hardly a kind woman,” I murmured, and tore my eyes from the building. “We need to find Kristoff.”

Castor lingered a moment more before nodding. “The map in the tavern seemed to say he’d be to the north-west of here.” He gestured towards a conveniently-placed town exit, and we dragged our feet the whole way. (Some of us more than others.)

It took us twenty minutes to find Kristoff’s campsite. Not that he was there. The small fire pit was completely cold—and the scorched wood even a bit wet. No one had been there in a few days, at least. Maybe a week. It was hard to tell; time seemed to matter little in the Blackmarsh.

It took another twenty minutes to find his body (even Littlefoot couldn’t track a scent in the marsh), at which point we were ambushed by darkspawn. It was the second time I had been caught by them, and I was growing to really dislike the feeling. The one who spoke to us called itself the First. It worked for the Mother, and it gloated about this before it sent us all to the Fade.

I had only enough sense in me to angle my staff so none of us would fall on its blade, and then I was in the Fade.

“What?” the First spluttered, and it was so completely bewildered, so surprised that the Mother would betray it as well that I almost laughed. I almost did, but the Fade hit me like a wave and I stumbled.

Nathaniel caught me before I could fall. I gasped for breath and tried to make sense of the words he said. They sounded entirely foreign for a moment. Some other language, something that didn’t fit for a moment—but soon I recovered. “Vir’era? Are you alright?”

I rubbed one hand down my face. “I hate the Fade,” I said, by way of answer. “It’s not right when I’m not dreaming.” I’d had a few non-darkspawn dreams. I knew how the Fade was supposed to be. This wasn’t quite it.

Nathaniel nodded and helped me to stand up again. Littlefoot snuffed my hand, and I gave him a reassuring pat. The First, either because we had refused to listen with enough attention or because whatever Darrien said was very offensive, decided to sic some shades on us. How, exactly, I could hardly tell you, but I was a bit nauseous and might not have been able to tell even if I wanted to.

We killed the shades without aplomb. Castor turned to me. I shrugged. He sighed. “After the darkspawn, then, I suppose.”

No one else had a better idea.

 

It didn’t take long to piece together that the people who had once lived in the little town of the Blackmarsh had become trapped in the Fade. Sigrun was fascinated, if a bit confused, by it all. She wasn’t particularly accustomed to the Fade, after all, but she had a drive to learn. It almost reminded me of Dagna.

A demon tried to trick us, but was predictably unsuccessful. If I looked just right at her, if I focused just past her projected façade, I found I was able to see that she wasn’t what she claimed to be, and I wondered if that would work outside the Fade. (Probably not.) We killed her, of course.

And as we wandered around, we found groups of demons at altars, performing rites that we did not recognize or understand. But from their locations, we gathered that stopping the rituals might patch the tears in the Fade—and if not, it would be little loss to kill a few extra demons. They were hardly anything big, barely able to manage more than a symbolic defense before we felled them.

Soon enough, we found the village proper… and in the eerie village-echo, a riot was beginning to boil, right at the heart of it all—right at the Baroness’ mansion. Justice stood there, taller than the souls around him and glowing like a beacon. Even before we grew close, it was obvious that he was something entirely different, something perhaps more pure.

He stared us down, and I felt like a mouse before a lion. His voice held the echoes and power of the Fade, and I could swear it bore right into my soul, testing my merit. Was I worthy? it asked. Was I just?

“A spirit?” Castor asked, waking me from my reverie and awe. I hadn’t heard any of Justice’s words, not really. Castor glanced to me. “Different from a demon?”

Justice huffed. “Demons are twisted by their desire to enter your realm,” he mocked, “but not I! Your realm holds little interest for spirits. We have no reason to seek you out.”

Castor hummed, looking to me again. I nodded. “It’s a complicated thing to explain, but Justice is no demon.”

“Wise words, mortal,” the spirit said. I tried to keep my delight at his compliment at a controlled level.

“What is happening here, then?” Castor asked, instead, and Justice gave us a speech. He condemned the Baroness’ actions, explaining at length how she had trapped the innocent souls around us here. It was their suffering and the injustice of it all which brought his attention and which compelled him to offer his aid. Only once he had finished, with a final accusatory statement at the absent Baroness, did he choose to address us.

“Will you join us, mortals?” he asked. “These people are not trained to fight as you are, and your weapons would be a boon. They need Justice!”

“We would,” Castor hedged, and I froze, unsure where this would take us, “but we need to return, as well. We’ve also been stuck here, though not by the Baroness.”

“Truly?” I held my staff tightly as Justice considered the statement. (His golden glow reflected against Maleficent in an entrancing way, and I was tempted to watch that instead, but did not.) “This is also an injustice. I shall offer you a deal, mortal. Offer your aid to these people against the tyranny here, and I shall help you to return, as well.”

Castor tensed. Darrien started to reach for his sword, but I put a hand on his arm and shook my head. He narrowed his eyes at me. Beside me, Littlefoot let out a small woof. Justice took notice, and apparently understood. “Indeed,” he answered, “but as we have just said, I am no demon.” I wasn’t sure if I should be more concerned about the fact that Littlefoot was understood or that he seemed to comprehend the situation.

“You are aware this sounds like a demon’s deal for us, aren’t you?” Nathaniel asked, sparing anyone else the trouble.

“I do not wish to enter your realm,” Justice argued. “I have not asked for sacrifice or for passage through a body. I ask for aid. It is a just deal.”

Littlefoot woofed again.

“You trust this, Vee?” Castor asked. Darrien crossed his arms.

I took a deep breath, deciding to be frank. “Yes. And even if I did not, it’s better than the alternative, isn’t it?” My heart pounded. Say yes, I willed him, silently.

He sighed slowly, but nodded. “Alright, Justice. We’ll help you and these people, and after we win, you will help us return.” They nodded to each other, sealing the deal, and then Justice began to rally the people.

It took maybe five minutes. They were already anxious to have this done with, whatever weapons they had already in hand. Justice lifted his sword high in the air and then brought the Baroness’ gates crashing down with righteous fury. We charged through, but before we got even halfway across the courtyard, the doors to the mansion clanged open. The Baroness herself greeted us, flanked by shades acting as guards. The First stood at her side.

I peered at her, and her image flickered like a candle’s flame. Precisely what was behind it, I didn’t know, but she wasn’t human. Not anymore, no matter how she carried herself. Her words were icicles, hanging far above our heads and threatening to drop, threatening to skewer us.

Justice didn’t like her speeches. Neither did Darrien. But she didn’t fight us herself; instead, she sent the First and her shades to do it. I thought it cowardly, though it was perhaps a bit hypocritical of me. I didn’t have time for more thoughts on the matter, though. The shades were advancing fast, so I cast shields over Littlefoot and Darrien, who were first to engage.

As Sigrun and Castor slipped around to try surprise attacks, I tried to pay attention to the layout of the fight. Too many villagers had joined in; I couldn’t risk my glyphs. They might get caught. I could add fire to the blades and pitchforks, though, so I did. That much was safe. (Or, at least, safe for the villagers wielding the fiery things.)

Justice met the First in the middle of the courtyard. I watched them for a moment, a fierce competition, before deciding that I was really quite done with being essentially useless. I transformed into a mabari and ran to fight at Littlefoot’s side. The shade we were assaulting couldn’t hold off all the attacks, though few made much of an impact. Still, we could tear at it slowly. The Fade seemed to bolster its strength enough that even when a sword decapitated it, the fight continued for a few moments.

But it soon dissolved, the fighters dispersing to aid with what shades remained. There had been maybe six at the start; three still stood. I was following Littlefoot to the nearest when the First started to plead with the Baroness to send him back from the Fade. Justice joined his voice, commanding her to return everyone. She sneered.

“I’ll send you back,” she agreed, and grabbed a fistful of air. The First flew up. “And you shall be the bridge!”

Blood magic, of course. The First screamed, his body rent. There was a light and a feeling like a punch to the gut.

We reawoke in the Blackmarsh. I gasped loudly, taking lungful after lungful of air into my lungs as though I had forgotten to breathe. The marsh stuck to my armor, pulling me back down even as I forced myself up. There were similar sounds all around me. Littlefoot even coughed. I could feel pain somewhere, but I dismissed it. It was indistinct, probably nothing more than the discomfort of being forced into and back out of the Fade.

The marsh was darker than it had been. I didn’t know how long had passed. I didn’t want to know. We were not done yet. The Baroness was not dead.

Kristoff’s body shuddered and began to move, the last of us to stand. “What?” he asked, but the voice was that of Justice. Even without the soul-touching echoes of the Fade, his voice was distinct. It held a command in it that was impossible to ignore.

“Justice,” I said, keeping my voice as steady as I was able. I didn’t know how he’d react initially. “You have entered the mortal realm. The Baroness’ spell trapped you here, in the body of the dead Grey Warden, Kristoff. It brought her back, too.”

He narrowed his eyes, but nodded. “Yes,” he answered, “I can feel the truth of your words. She will attempt to rend the Fade once more. We must stop her.”

I could feel the questions of my comrades on my back, but we didn’t have the time. I just agreed with Justice, and he waved a hand through the air. “This will allow your weapons to heal the tears she will make.”

I didn’t ask what he meant. It wasn’t important. He was already walking, anyhow, striding off towards the Baroness’ mansion with a glare in his eyes and sword in hand. Castor caught my eyes, but I smiled wanly. He shook his head, and we followed the spirit.

True to Justice’s predictions, there were small tears that seemed to follow a path—the path the Baroness doubtlessly made. After a moment’s consideration, Darrien swung his sword through one, and it dissipated like smoke. He shrugged at us. We shrugged at him. He took care of any other tears we came across.

Until we reached the largest tear, a veritable portal, beside which stood the Baroness herself. She laughed at us, she mocked us, and she promised to enslave the world. Typical B-movie villainy. Watching her body rip itself apart as she became physically the Pride demon she already was internally was a bit more impressive, and a lot more disgusting.

She renewed the battle with a lightning whip that nearly caught Sigrun. I cast a hasty shield over the party, sparing only the briefest of thoughts to worry about electricity and water. We were mostly dry here. Mostly.

Darrien let Justice charge her in favor of swinging at the portal to dissolve it. I relit everyone’s blades. Nathaniel sent arrows flying over our heads when Justice was pushed away by a particularly forceful shove from the demon. I didn’t see Sigrun, though that was probably the point. Castor’s hair was hard to miss, though, and I bolstered the backstab he made with a burst of ice from my staff.

Littlefoot barreled through and sank his teeth into the demon’s leg, drawing out a howl of pain. Justice used the distraction to plunge his sword deep into its abdomen, and I saw an arrow meet one of its eyes. A small flash passed by its ankles—Sigrun, I thought. The demon was forced to its knees, but it was far from finished. A ball of lightning formed in its hands, and I had to dash to the side to avoid being caught. A grunt nearby said Nathaniel had done the same.

I twisted around in time to see Castor take his turn at diving away, followed by Justice swinging viciously and severing one of the demon’s hands. Darrien rejoined the fight with a spectacular yell, chopping of the rest of the arm in a fluid motion. The demon howled some more. I sent some more ice that way while Justice and Darrien backed up to get momentum.

A minute and three sword swings later, the demon was decapitated, and we had won. I sagged in relief. Castor went to speak with Justice, but I decided to continue laying where I’d fallen for the moment. Getting up seemed like a lot of work.

A hand came into my vision. I followed it to find Nathaniel standing over me, one eyebrow raised. “Want some help? Or did you plan to lay there until absolutely necessary?”

Somehow it seemed more embarrassing when he said it like that, and I felt my cheeks heat. “Um,” I answered, eloquently. My mouth was drier than only moments ago and I swallowed hard. I took his hand. It was warm, and large enough to completely envelope my own. He pulled me up, and my blush only increased when I noticed just how close he was. “Th-thank you.” I swallowed again.

He smiled. “Of course.” He stepped away, letting my hand fall from his as he did so. _Oh no,_ I realized. _He’s hot._

I was doomed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _ma serannas_ \- thank you


	6. nathaniel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and a happy new year!!!

I tried very hard not to think about Nathaniel for the next few days. I may have been a bit too obvious about avoiding him, but Capella had told me once I was a terrible liar. Still, I didn’t want… No, I did want him. That was the problem. I couldn’t let him know. (Precisely why this was such a terrible idea was beyond my ability to explain. I had always been this way. No one could know. Not ever.)

I wandered outside the Keep for a time. The walls of the fortress were being rebuilt with granite. Each day, Wade made more armor, more weapons of silverite, veridium, and iron. Most of the soldiers at the Keep were being outfitted with silverite breastplates and helmets, swords of veridium, and everything of iron was a backup, used for training or while the silverite was still being forged. Castor had done well. Vigil’s Keep was strong and growing only stronger.

With a mind to grow stronger myself, I trained with Velanna and Anders. She helped me improve with my Keeper magic, and he proved willing to give me pointers on how to better use healing spells. I did well, according to him, for someone not as attuned with spirit magic. Sometimes Neria joined us, though her talents as an Arcane Warrior were generally easier to train with the soldiers.

Justice often watched the three of us as we practiced spells in the courtyard. Once, as I took a break, I went to ask him about it. I think he sensed my curiosity, because he started to speak even before I could begin my question. “Everything in this world holds whispers of what has happened around it. Commander Cousland tells me you mortals are unable to see this.”

I sat on the ground and leaned against the stone of a tower. “He’s right. Not even mages can see the memories of an item in the way that spirits can.” I remembered that Cole could see what whispers any object might hold. For Justice to see such as well was unsurprising.

“Hm.” Justice was quiet for a moment, watching Anders needle Velanna. She retaliated by ensnaring him in some roots. Nearby soldiers snickered.

“Do you miss the Fade?” I asked him. There seemed to be something wistful about the look on his face whenever magic was used near him. I didn’t know what it meant, but I knew he liked to be close to it.

“Yes,” he answered, completely unashamed. “But I cannot return. The magic you and the other mages wield is… comforting, though. It is like you bring the Fade through yourselves when you cast.”

I hummed. I didn’t know how magic worked, not really. The Fade was a part of it (else dwarves and Tranquil would be able to cast spells), but beyond that… “I’m glad.”

“As am I, Warden.” He looked down at me. “Your staff sings brightest. I think it is the lyrium.”

“Probably,” I agreed. Maleficent guarded her treasure jealously, but I waved a hand to the top of my staff nonetheless. “You can touch it, if you like.”

He did not hesitate. Once the invitation was extended, he took full advantage, running his fingers over the staff and petting Maleficent. “A powerful beast,” he said, “with a powerful name. Maleficent.” I did not ask how he knew. I didn’t need to, though it was odd to hear that name said by him. “The lyrium was the king’s idea. The dragon was the queen’s.”

I hadn’t known that. It made sense; Alistair had a fascination with magic and Capella had a fascination with power. I watched Justice trace the glass encasing the lyrium with care. It wasn’t much. I didn’t have anything else to offer him. But it seemed to be enough. I turned to watch Anders, once again free from roots, try to catch six dummies aflame with one fireball.

Anders only managed four when Justice returned my staff to me. “Thank you,” he said.

I smiled. “You’re welcome. I’m sorry I can’t offer more.”

“No, you have done well.” He took a deep breath. “It was a small comfort, but it is more than I would have expected of a mortal.” He stared after Anders as well. I wondered if they had begun speaking yet, if Anders’ anger at Templars had come to anger Justice as well, or if that was yet to come.

“We try,” I said. “Mostly. We’re not always very good at it. But we do what we can. It’s all we can do, sometimes.” I wasn’t sure precisely what I was referring to. Maybe life as a whole. If the shoe fits, right?

Justice didn’t respond, and we remained in companionable silence until Littlefoot decided I needed to train with him. I bid the spirit adieu and joined my mabari as a dog, tag-teaming against Velanna and Anders. We won.

 

Edelweiss grew steadily accustomed to the lack of fellow halla, and Samuel informed me that he had learned a few good tips for her care. “Mostly, she’s not too different from horses, except for her hooves and horns,” he told me as I helped to brush her one day. “She seems to like grass better than hay, so I’ll just make sure enough of that grows. I don’t know all the details for how your halla keepers help with horns, so I’m going in blind there, but hopefully as long as they’re kept clean everything will be fine.”

Apparently agreeing with what Samuel said, Edelweiss let out a low bleat. He laughed. “And she’s definitely smarter than the horses, too! Makes it easier on this old man. I can just ask her if I’m doing alright and she can help.”

I spent most of my free time with her. By the end of the week, a good four days after we’d been sent to the Fade and ‘recruited’ Justice, I decided to try my hand at shapeshifting into a halla. It wasn’t as though I was limited in how many forms I could take, and I could still hear Morrigan’s voice in the back of my head. She had always encouraged me to expand my repertoire. It was almost like I was letting her down by not doing so.

I didn’t know what use I would have for a halla form, but at the least it would be practice of shapeshifting, so I didn’t see any harm in it. Besides, halla were gorgeous creatures, and a great symbol for the Dalish. It was appropriate, I thought. I was Dalish, after all; why should I not attempt the form of a creature so utterly invaluable to Dalish life?

Unlike my previous two transformations, though, I wasn’t precisely prepared to just up and become a halla. Though the cat was a surprise, I’d had cats, once upon a time, and had loved to watch them play and wander. And with the mabari, I’d been studying the way Littlefoot moved for months specifically so that I could achieve a transformation into that shape. But I hadn’t had that sort of experience or dedicated observance of a halla. My first attempt failed.

At least I knew what was wrong, though. It wasn’t very hard to guess; once I understood how shapeshifting worked, it was easy. I just needed to understand halla better. I watched how Edelweiss moved, the way she picked up her feet when walking or running, the way she always tilted her head slowly (if at all), how her small deer-tail would flicker a bit when she was pleased and stand straight up when she ran.

Her horns were gorgeous in sunlight, like newly-shined marble, and her coat was the whitest I had ever seen, without even a hint of yellow tones. I could not tell where her pupil ended and her iris began, so black were her eyes, such a perfectly even obsidian. And she loved to sniff at new things, to investigate anyone who came close to her pen. Only once did she stay away from someone who approached—Bann Esmerelle. I couldn’t blame her.

I sat after my first attempt, meditating and watching Edelweiss, when Castor came stomping over. “Vir’era!” he called, looking like an encroaching flame, sneering and snarling. “Your fucking long-term project is here.”

I stared for a moment, unsure of just what he meant and made nervous by his anger. “My what?”

“Loghain,” he growled, teeth bared. “He tried to talk to me. Something about me being commander must make him think he can do that.” Castor glared at me and I shrank back. “I will not speak with him. It was bad enough fighting at his side when the fate of Ferelden laid on our shoulders. There are more important matters for me to attend to now.”

And then he stormed away, feet like thunder and eyes like lightning. I trembled where he left me until Littlefoot came to investigate. “Dammit,” I whispered, then, and took a shaky breath. “Dammit, fuck, fuck, dammit, shit.”

A tear or two slid unbidden down my cheek. Castor wasn’t angry with me, I knew that logically, but still I knew the truth was that he would not be angry if I had not begged for Loghain’s life. It was my fault that he was angry. It was my fault, and I couldn’t fix it, and no matter how much he acted as though he forgave me, some part of me would forever fear that he had not.

“Vir’era?”

I nearly jumped out of my skin. Nathaniel reached out, putting his hand on my shoulder, and I felt the breath leave my lungs for the second time. I didn’t manage any words, to my own shame.

“You’re crying,” he said. He frowned, and I stumbled backwards.

“’M ’kay,” I mumbled, using my sleeves to rub at my face. “’S fine.”

“Says the one who was crying.” He crossed his arms. “What happened? I saw Castor looking about ready to maim someone, coming from this direction. Now you’re crying. Tell me, Vir’era.”

I swallowed, staring down at the ground. “It’s nothing.”

He didn’t budge. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a bad liar?” I winced. Littlefoot pressed his face into my hand. Nathaniel cursed. “It was Castor, wasn’t it?”

“No!” I shouted, a little too loud, a little too quick, eyes wide as I turned them to the archer. “I—it’s me, not him, it’s me, it’s my fault, don’t blame him.” The only thing worse than Castor’s ire was to cause a rift in the friendships being forged. It wasn’t Castor’s fault, anyway, it was all me, all my fault, me and my stupid hopes to keep a Hawke I didn’t even know alive because I just had to save everyone, I just had to—what was the point of being here if I couldn’t, if I let them all die, if I let it—

“Vir’era!” Nathaniel was in my face now, nose mere inches from my own. I could feel his breath on my face, could see my own reflection in his eyes. “Look at me,” he demanded, and I did, but the shame of it all, of breaking down in front of him, of all people, it overwhelmed me. I started to cry again. He cursed, the sound washing over me and entrenching me further in my despicable state.

I knew I was having a panic attack. I knew that even Castor’s anger hadn’t been intense enough to start this. I didn’t know why it was happening. It killed me, the confused automatic responses, the fight-or-flight struggling in my mind. What brought this on? Why was I so weak.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, trying to slip away. Maybe I could get to my wardrobe without more questions if I took the back entrance. I needed to hide, to finish this in solitude.

Nathaniel said something, but the words slipped in one ear and out the other. He was as confused as I was. More, probably. He didn’t know. Not like Darrien did. Darrien knew. He’d seen the aftermath, back in the Deep Roads. Without Theron, Darrien was the only one who had really seen me like this. (Neria knew. Castor knew. But not the same.)

I struggled more. I wasn’t successful. I wasn’t strong, wasn’t a fighter, but the idea of him seeing me like this… I hated it. I tried to ask him to let go, but all I managed was an exceptionally pitiful ‘please.’

“Hey, hey, no, Vir’era, look at me, come on.” He pulled me close enough to wrap me in one arm, so effortless, like I was little more than a struggling pup. I felt Littlefoot pressing hard against my legs, untrained in comforting but kind nonetheless. I squeezed my eyes shut and sobbed. I could only hope no one else was around. There were enough soldiers who didn’t like me as it was.

Nathaniel held me close, though. At first, it only worsened the despicable state of shame I felt myself tumble through, but… Eventually I gave in to his comfort. It wasn’t the best comfort; he didn’t know what he was doing, his every movement hesitant and confused, but it was something. It was enough.

I covered my face with my hands. He let me. Without further protests to stop him, he rubbed my back. Nothing was said for a while. When he did speak, I wasn’t calm, not by a long shot, but I wasn’t in full panic mode either, and maybe that’s all that matters. “You okay?”

I shook my head. I didn’t trust myself to speak, but a lie right now was impossible. Instead, I let myself add to my embarrassment. I let myself tell the truth.

“What happened?” he asked next, and I shook my head again. It only made him sigh, but I think he understood. I couldn’t say. “Was it the Commander?”

I wanted to lie this time. I wanted to say no. But my body betrayed me; before I could try any deception, it tensed, and this was all the answer Nathaniel needed. He muttered a few curses, and I forced myself to look him in the eye. My vision was watery, though, and it was hard to tell just where his eyes were. “My fault,” I insisted. “Castor didn’t… He—nothing—it’s me, just me, I’m sorry, I-I… Ir abelas, I am the… it’s—I’m—creators.”

“It is not your fault,” Nathaniel said, bending down so our eyes were level. He pursed his lips. “It is never your fault, do you understand?”

“It is!” He didn’t know about my problems, about how my mind perverted the very reality around me, how I could not always control my reactions to even basic things. Castor hadn’t caused this. It was me. It was my fault. I fucked up again. I always fucked something up.

“Don’t you dare blame yourself.” Whatever Nathaniel thought had happened, it made him very angry. “Just tell me what he did.”

I shook my head. “It’s not—it’s me, always me, n-not Castor, okay?” He started to argue some more and I felt myself shake. “Please, it—I am—I can’t—not now, later, please, later, I can’t…”

“Fine,” he ground out, obviously still upset, and I couldn’t help but blame myself for that, too. (If only I hadn’t panicked, if only I could regain enough of my words to explain, if only I wasn’t so fucked up in the first place…) He sat with me when I huddled against the fencing of Edelweiss’ pen. She snuffed at my face, and Littlefoot laid himself over my legs. I was surrounded. I was safe.

 

Some time later—I don’t know how much later—I was calm enough to speak. Thankfully, no one else had come this way. No one else had been witness to my hysteria. I picked at a loose thread on my sleeve as I organized my thoughts. It was hard, trying to figure out just what to say. I started simple. “Sorry.”

“No need.” I felt Nathaniel shift, but didn’t lift my gaze from my sleeves. “Are you… alright?”

“Yes,” I said, then sighed. “Sort of. I’m… I have… It’s called anxiety.”

“I don’t understand. Everyone feels anxious sometimes. I have never seen it cause… that.”

The thread began to fray between my fingers as I worried it. I tried to twist it back into compliance. “It’s not the same as that, no. I—I’m—ir abelas, it’s a bit hard to explain. I have an… imbalance. In my brain.”

He shifted again. “What sort of imbalance?”

“It’s a chemical imbalance,” I explained, these words old and learned by rote. “It means that sometimes… I will respond to situations differently than most people. Because—because they are more intense for me. And I can’t turn it off. Sometimes I will spend days on edge. It can overwhelm me.”

He hummed. “So that is what happened now?”

Biting my lip, I nodded. “Everything becomes too much, and I can’t process it all, and I just… shut down.”

“How do you deal with it?”

I laughed, but it was an ugly, bitter sound. “I hide.”

“Ah.”

“It…” I huffed. “Littlefoot helps. Staying away from everything, too. I used to…” I stopped myself. He didn’t need to know all the details. It was bad enough that he knew this much. I felt my face burn.

“And Castor caused it this time?” he asked.

“No!” I was too quick to respond. He snorted, and I knew he didn’t believe me.

“Does he know about this anxiety?” I wished I could say no. My silence was answer enough, though. “And still he came to you when he was angry. He did cause this.”

“It doesn’t work that way,” I tried. “He couldn’t have known, and he didn’t do it intentionally.” I turned to face Nathaniel, and his face was so very close to mine that it shocked me for a moment. “He wouldn’t,” I whispered.

He raised an eyebrow at me. I think he didn’t quite believe me. I wasn’t sure if I would believe me, were I in his shoes. I had to try and convince him, regardless. I tugged my sleeve again. “Loghain is here. He’s here and it’s my fault he’s still alive, because I was selfish and I needed… It doesn’t matter why. Castor has many reasons to hate Loghain. I hate him, too, but we need him alive, and… He wasn’t supposed to be here, but he is. And that’s why Castor was angry. It’s my fault, and he didn’t know I would… Couldn’t have known.”

Nathaniel pursed his lips, but nodded. “It’s still not your fault. You say there’s a reason he’s alive, and I trust that. I heard what Loghain did, and I have gotten to know you while I’ve been here. You must have very good reason to keep him alive.”

Shakily, I let out a long breath. “Yes.”

“It’s not your fault,” he repeated, his dark eyes boring into mine. I swallowed, but my mouth was dry. He was so close…

Heat flooded my face, and I pushed myself to stand up. “Maybe.” I brushed my robes free of dirt and tugged them into proper position again. Littlefoot huffed at me, upset at being dislodged. I patted his head in apology. “I-I need to, um. I need to see why Loghain is here. That’s w-why, um, why Castor found me, and I just.” I swallowed again. Pulled at my robes. “Ir abelas.”

Nathaniel started to say something, but I didn’t wait to hear what. I fled, hopping over Edelweiss’ fence and nearly running back up and into the keep. Whatever had just happened, whatever I felt for Nathaniel (infatuation? base desire? an actual crush?), I had to forget it. I couldn’t—there was no way for me to do what I needed to, to achieve my goals, and still maintain a romantic relationship. Especially with Nathaniel. He would stay here. I was going to leave for Kirkwall. It couldn’t happen. Besides, he probably didn’t see me that way.

These thoughts kept my feet moving away from Nathaniel and whatever temptations hovered at his side, encouraged me to enter the main hall of Vigil’s Keep with a straight face and a purposeful stride. Loghain was easy to spot; everyone gave him a wide berth as he paced at the far end of the room.

I took a deep, steadying breath. I had dealt with worse than Loghain, had dealt with Loghain in worse circumstances. He stopped pacing when he saw me, something dark crossing his face before he schooled it into a stony expression.

“Vir’era,” he greeted, nodding as I came close. “Is…”

“The darkspawn haven’t retreated. You’re safe yet,” I said. He relaxed infinitesimally. I didn’t know if I felt sorry for him, for the words I’d said during the Blight and the threat of death that would therefore follow him forever. Would turn me into his reaper, waiting to collect.

“I suppose Cousland sent you to speak with me, then,” he deduced, and I nodded. He sighed and leaned against the nearby column. “Makes sense. I don’t think he cares for me much.” He eyed me. “Not that I expect you do.”

I smiled wanly. “You have your uses.” He snorted. “I thought you were recruiting.”

“Well, I was.” With a great sigh, he rolled his eyes. “But apparently I’ve been recalled. Now I’m being sent to Orlais.” The way he spat the word, like poisoned food, honestly delighted me. I didn’t know if the Orlesians deserved the punishment of counting Loghain among their number, but he certainly deserved the punishment of repenting in Orlais.

“I see.” I didn’t say more, but it was probably obvious in my voice or in my face just how fitting I found his sentence. He gave me a very dry look, and I knew he had caught my amusement. My lips twitched up a little.

“Anora seems to enjoy working with your friends,” he said, instead. “The queen, especially. It’s not often someone outmaneuvers my daughter. I daresay she’s impressed, though she would never say as much.”

I gave a real smile then. “Capella is a very impressive woman. I think she decided she was going to be queen long before any of us really understood it was a viable option, and she just played her cards to ensure everything went in her favor.”

Loghain grunted. “The authority suits her better than it does her brother. He could not leave fast enough when he saw me, and did not even try civility.”

“You are the one who gave Howe the opportunity to kill his family and the one to allow slavers to nearly take his lover’s father,” I pointed out, raising one eyebrow. He winced, and I felt a small victory in it. “Whatever you may have said, whatever your reasons may have been, they will never be enough to warrant either of those things.”

“…Yes,” he admitted, eventually. “I suppose you’re right. And that’s why I’m here, isn’t it? To atone for my sins, wearing the uniform of an order I did not understand.”

“For what it’s worth,” I said, “I hope that you do prove yourself to be better than we have… Than we have decided you are.”

“As do I.” He shifted, glancing at the front of the hall. I followed his gaze to see Nathaniel enter. Loghain seemed curious about this, about how the son of Rendon Howe had ended up welcome here, but he did not ask, and I did not tell. “I should leave. I came to explain where I would be, and I have done that. It’s best I do not dally longer. The Orlesians are… expecting me.”

I nodded. “Then I bid you goodbye, Loghain.” I escorted him to the door, considering what would be the best parting words. There was something, something which fit the situation, though it was usually used as an insult. Maybe it still was, when the words left my lips. I certainly held no love for the man. “Dirthara-ma.”

He gave me a strange look, but nodded. “Farewell, Warden. I hope you do not take offense when I say that I do not look forward to our next meeting.”

I watched him leave. He stood tall even under the glares and stares of the soldiers that occupied the keep. I couldn’t decide if it was courage or simple refusal to give in. Maybe it was both.

 

I avoided Nathaniel the rest of the day. Castor, too, though I did search Darrien out to tell him why Loghain had come. I could trust Darrien to tell Castor without needing me to do it. I didn’t know if I wanted to see Castor just yet.

I retreated back to Edelweiss’ pen. She nuzzled me in greeting before running around with Littlefoot. I watched them, leaning back against the post. It was calming to be in their presence, to be around such uncomplicated happiness. They found joy in each other’s company and they expressed it freely, unworried, unhampered.

Maybe someday I could achieve such a happiness, such a friendship. I desperately wanted it. I wanted someone, someone who could speak with me in words I understood, that could be my friend. Maybe more. (Nathaniel’s face came to mind, but I banished it as quickly as I could. There was no way for him and I to be together and stay together. It was doomed.)

I sighed quietly as I watched Edelweiss once again. To be free like her, to be unconstrained by the limits and expectations of society, it sounded marvelous. Able to roam as I wished, to graze on grass with only the worry of keeping my distance from those who would eat me… And they would never act like a friend, would always show their true faces from the beginning. It would be no guessing game.

I closed my eyes, letting the small wintry breeze brush past me, ruffling my hair, my robes, my nose. If I pretended, I could imagine I was a halla, head lifted into the moving air and tail twitching.

Then my weight shifted without my intent, and there was a little pressure on my head. I blinked, looked around, looked down, and bleated.

I had done it! I was a halla!

Colors were odd as a halla. Everything looked bleached, looked sepia-toned. I couldn’t tell just what color my hooves and fur were, only that they were darker than what Edelweiss had. That was hardly a surprise, though; she was so pale, so bright, that it was almost guaranteed I’d be darker. I turned my gaze towards Edelweiss and Littlefoot, who were watching me with rapt attention, and bleated again.

Littlefoot howled in answer. The world seemed less heavy somehow, less intense. I galloped over and nudged my face alongside Edelweiss’, nipped playfully at Littlefoot when he jumped at me. A game of tag (or something similar) started; Edelweiss and I avoided Littlefoot as well as we could, pounding the earth beneath our hooves, and he chased after.

It was a pure feeling, and a joyful moment. We ran and ran and ran, with no audience and no cares but for each other and the sun on our backs, the breeze against our fur.

Only when my lungs threatened to give out did I stop to take in huge lungfuls of air. Littlefoot caught me, nosing gently at my flank before flopping to the ground, panting in agreeable exhaustion. Edelweiss came to settle nearby, and I laid down to press against her, loving the contact, the knowledge that she trusted me completely.

As I began to doze, I thought I saw Nathaniel leaning against the fence, but when I managed to look again, he was gone. He may never have been there. It wouldn’t be surprising for me to see the things I wanted to see in my sleepy state.

 

_Warden Vir’era Sabrae:_

_Thank you for thinking of Redcliffe. My brother, Teagan, assures me that the reparations are well underway. While there is much of Redcliffe which may never recover, we are doing what we can. Under the counsel of the mayor, who told me that you and the other Grey Wardens were of great help during the nights before Connor was saved, I am having a statue built in your collective honor._

_I am honored that you have entrusted to me the knowledge concerning the Queen in your letter. I had noticed as much myself, but did not want to overstep my role. With your advice, I believe I will be able to achieve a comfortable balance between the King and Queen. That said, I do not think Alistair needs take a very active role in ruling. Capella is very capable, and the fact that Alistair may disapprove of some ideas does seem to make her cautious._

_Connor tells me you have sent him a letter. I find myself in your debt again, knowing that you have thought of him in this tumultuous time. There is little I can offer you that you would have use for, but know that I shall ensure no one forgets you are a Champion of Redcliffe. You will always be welcome there._

_Arl Eamon Guerrin of Redcliffe, 9:31 Dragon_

_\--_

_Arl Eamon,_

_It is I who should be honored that you would call me a Champion. I shall strive to remain worthy of such a lofty title, and if it pleases you, I will maintain occasional correspondence to be sure all is well. Know that you need only ask for my help and I shall do what I can to grant it._

_I am relieved to hear that Capella does hold herself back at least in part. I know she means well, but sometimes I fear she forgets the consequences of her actions on those she is not in closer contact with. I hope that you and Alistair can temper this—she is a Queen now. Her concerns must be with Ferelden as a whole, from the tiniest Alienage elves to the human nobles at her side. She cannot put Alistair or herself first._

_It was easy to think of Connor, and truly no hardship for me. I went through a somewhat similarly large change when I left my clan to join the Grey Wardens, and now hope only that I can offer him a sense of peace and perhaps friendship to help him adjust to life in the Circle of Magi. He is a good boy._

_Warden Vir’era Sabrae, 9:31 Dragon_

_\--_

_Warden Vir’era Sabrae,_

_Thanks for your letter. The Circle is weird. It’s very quiet. Most of the other apprentices have nightmares, too, except for them it’s because of blood mages. The First Enchanter is nice, just like you said, but he said I’ve got to learn more control. He said that’s why a demon was able to find me like before._

_I think you’re wrong that it wasn’t my fault. If I had listened to Jowan or been at the Circle like I was supposed to be then I would have known how to not summon a demon, even on accident. And I would have known that you’re not to make deals with demons ever, because they don’t keep their word. But I didn’t like Jowan. I still don’t._

_There’s a dwarf here, Dagna, who says the Grey Wardens helped her get to the Circle, too, but she didn’t know which one you are. I didn’t know dwarves could learn at Circles. She can’t do magic, and the Circle is for mages. But she said she’s here to learn other stuff, and she’s studying with the Tranquil._

_I know you said you’re fine getting letters from me, but I hope that stays fine. It’s nice to have someone who knows what I did that I can talk to who isn’t family or the First Enchanter. Even if you’re wrong about it and say it wasn’t me._

_Connor Guerrin, 9:31 Dragon_

_\--_

_Connor,_

_I maintain that it wasn’t your fault. It was Jowan’s, for being a poor teacher; it was Rendon Howe’s, for sending Jowan to poison your father; it was the demon’s, for tricking a vulnerable young boy; but it was not yours. You are a victim as much as everyone else in Redcliffe._

_I’m glad you wrote me. I don’t know many people in Ferelden, and most of the people I do know are usually very busy, so it’s nice to have someone to write to. So as long as you want to send me letters, I’m happy to receive them. It just might take some extra time for me to reply on occasion, if I’m on a mission for the Wardens._

_I remember Dagna. I’m not surprised she doesn’t remember me; I didn’t speak much to her. She might remember Neria and Leliana, though. They’re the ones who helped her most. She’s very enthusiastic._

_The other mages recently dealt with something very terrible at the Tower. I’ll spare you the details—I’m sure one of the apprentices can tell you if you simply must know. My friends and I came and helped them during the Blight, like we helped you and Redcliffe. That’s how we got the First Enchanter and a few of the other mages to come so that we could save you from the demon._

_If you see a Grey Warden called Daylen come through, would you mind telling him to write to me or Neria? He’s one of the friends we had that helped during the Blight, but he left on a personal mission. I think he’ll be visiting the Circle at some point, but I don’t know when._

_May the Dread Wolf never catch your scent._

_Vir’era Sabrae, 9:31 Dragon_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _dirthara-ma_ \- may you learn; used generally as an insult, suggesting the person is ignorant/dumb


	7. amaranthine

It all went to hell in a hand basket very quickly after that. It made me wonder if Loghain was as much an omen for me as I for him. It was only appropriate, I supposed. Why should I alone hold such a position? I was no one. I was just a single Dalish elf—and not even that—I was a person out of my element, in the wrong world, clinging desperately to knowledge I shouldn’t have.

Castor called a meeting between all the Grey Wardens and the leaders of the forces of Amaranthine. It was the first time I’d seen the banns so close. They must have learned from Neria’s presence not to question the number of elves that had been recruited. Or maybe it was Darrien’s influence? Not that it mattered. After this, they’d be too indebted to the Grey Wardens to care.

Castor was about to address everyone, perhaps to explain his plan for dealing with the Darkspawn, even as the two clans fought each other. However, fate had different plans; just as all the attention was brought to the Warden-Commander, a resounding crash sent heads whipping to the doors instead. There, a young girl ran in. “Commander!” she shouted “Commander, you must come quickly! There’s a darkspawn army heading to Amaranthine!”

The Banns gasped—but they seemed to have better control of themselves than the lords and ladies from the Landsmeet, as they didn’t start shouting over each other. They let Castor take control, deferred immediately to him. “The war starts now,” Castor said, decisively, and looked around at us, his comrades.

Seneschal Varel nodded. “The armies will not move fast enough to reach the city. But a small party could save them. I suggest you take no more than four with you.”

“Neria, you stay here,” Castor ordered. She frowned at him, and he continued, “We need at least one higher-rank Warden here. Seneschal, help her with whatever she needs.” Varel nodded again. “Darrien, with me.”

“If this is a chance to get vengeance for the Legion of the Dead, don’t think of leaving me behind!” Sigrun said, coming to stand by Castor. He huffed and shook his head, but nodded.

“Of course not. We’ll need some ranged help, too…” He cast his eyes over us again.

I stepped forward. “I volunteer.”

“Me, too,” Nathaniel said, moving to stand at my side. My heart sped up at that, even though it probably didn’t mean anything. Shouldn’t mean anything.

“Sounds good.” Castor waved us to come to him before addressing everyone else. “Be on your guard. Soldiers, I want a double rotation at the perimeter until I’ve returned. Wardens, prepare yourselves. When I get back, we’re taking the fight to them.”

I tapped his arm, and he looked at me. “Castor, there’s something you should know.”

“Everyone! Dismissed, go take care of your duties.” He waved a hand and the crowd began to disperse. Neria came close, knowing that whatever I had to say could affect her, too.

I swallowed, steeling myself. Only Castor and Neria were close enough to hear. “There won’t be time to come back. I—I don’t know all the details, but both Amaranthine and the Keep will be attacked. We can save them both, especially with Neria here. The walls you’ve had built and the metals you found for Wade should give us that much.” Pausing, I tried to remember more.

“What else?” Castor asked.

“I-I’m thinking!” I pursed my lips and tugged my braid. “The—I don’t know how it happens. But the darkspawn will lead us to the Mother’s lair. And we’ll have to kill her. We… we don’t have to kill the Architect, and if he is what I think he is… then it may be wise to not.” A huff escaped me as I grew frustrated with my failing memory. “But the Mother, definitely, we must kill her. She’s insane. A broodmother.”

“Well,” Castor said, “at least it’s nothing new with her.” He dragged a hand down his face. “I don’t like this, but if you’re sure… Fuck it, you haven’t been wrong yet. Maker, let’s hope none of us regret this later.”

With that, we scattered to gather our weapons and don our armor. I would have painted Littlefoot, but there wasn’t any time. We were on a schedule, so to speak—if we did not move quickly enough, Amaranthine would be lost.

 

Outside, in the winter sunlight, there was not a cloud in the sky. It was early afternoon, and the sun glinted off our armor, heating it despite the Ferelden frost. We pushed our horses fast along the road to the city, galloping as quickly as we dared. Nothing was said on the way, and as we drew close, the darkspawn itch began to creep against our skulls. They were already here.

Castor spared me a glance as we dismounted hurriedly just outside the Amaranthine gates. Darkspawn were everywhere; there wasn’t time for more. Even as his feet touched the ground, Castor began to fight, killing an unsuspecting hurlock. I wove a barrier over Littlefoot as he leapt from behind my saddle, and then I stayed back.

The darkspawn weren’t at the gates in force—not right now—but I knew there were plenty more teeming at the edges, waiting for their turn to join the assault. We couldn’t let them take the city. I froze a shriek and watched as a soldier shattered it with a well-placed axe. He nodded at me, a small acknowledgement, and we continued on. Littlefoot kept the creatures away from myself and Nathaniel, even herding them to the waiting blades of a soldier or one of the Wardens more capable of such active close-quarters combat.

As the last one fell, a man ran up to Castor. “Please, Grey Warden!” he begged. “Save my family—my family’s in the city!” He pointed, but even as we turned to look, I knew that was the direction of the bulk of what darkspawn forces had made it this far.

“Please, calm yourselves while I speak to the Warden-Commander!” a guard said, interrupting the man, who nodded tightly and wandered off a short ways.

“Constable Aidan,” Castor greeted, nodding.

“Warden-Commander.” Aidan crossed his arms over his chest in salute. “I’m glad you arrived when you did, but I fear there is little that can be done now.” He and Castor began to discuss the situation, though Aidan obviously held little hope for the city. He insisted that Amaranthine was lost, and did not encourage helping.

Castor was crossing his arms, obviously displeased, when a soldier approached, eyes wide. “Constable!” the soldier said, pointing to the road. “There is a darkspawn approaching, alone!”

Everyone turned to look as a hurlock came close. Aidan called for its death, but then it spoke. “Peace! Do not be killing! Only talk! Architect has a message, for Grey Warden!”

I watched the messenger, trying to remember its place in all this. One of the Architect’s followers, so not inherently an enemy—but why was it here? I barely registered Castor telling the constable to stand down. The hurlock came closer, words earnest as it spoke to Castor. “The Mother’s army, it marches to Vigil’s Keep. She attacks now! The Architect, he sends me to warn you! You must save the keep, then finish the Mother in her lair.”

“Why warn us?” Darrien asked.

“The Architect wishes to have the Grey Wardens’ trust. He does not wish the Mother to succeed.” This dialogue felt familiar, but only in the sense of déjà-vu. I could not predict it, but none of it surprised me as it occurred. Still, I could not escape the feeling that I should have known.

“If we leave now, we may have time to reach the keep,” a man said. He looked like Aidan, but wasn’t—I didn’t know his name.

“But what about the darkspawn here?” Aidan asked.

The Architect’s messenger began to speak more hurriedly, words becoming insistent. “Soon, they will go there, too. The Mother, she wants the keep destroyed utterly!”

A small argument ensued—Aidan and not-Aidan did not see the worth in saving Amaranthine, even going so far as to suggest burning it. But Castor remained confident, declaring that he trusted the fortress he’d built and those he’d left to protect it. Nathaniel was unhappy with this, Sigrun agreed with Castor, and Darrien and I were off to the wayside. Darrien caught my eye and jerked his head at the conversation, even as Castor defended his position.

“Vigil’s Keep is strong,” I said, hardly realizing I was speaking out loud until silence followed my words. Apparently, Castor wanted to hear what I had to say—and if the Warden-Commander listened to someone, everyone listened. “It won’t fall to darkspawn. Especially not with Neria there. She is a good leader, and a capable warrior. With her magic and Wade’s weapons, the Keep will stand. Amaranthine is not so lucky. There are innocent people here that we can save, if only we try.”

“You heard him,” Castor declared, ceasing the discussion. “Vigil’s Keep will be fine. Still, they could use extra warning.” He didn’t mention that I’d already warned Neria. It’s not like that would help, anyway. “Sigrun, you’re the fastest one here. If you wouldn’t mind…”

She nodded once. “Say no more, Commander! You save the people of the city. I’ll make sure the keep knows what’s coming.”

And that was that, really. Castor sent the darkspawn messenger with Sigrun, saying that he was to ensure she was safe and that she was to kill him if she thought he was setting a trap. The messenger didn’t seem to like that much, but Castor didn’t care.

“Let’s save this town,” he said, punching the air with one of his daggers. A small roar met his words, lifting them high into the sky, as the city guard and the lingering townspeople rallied behind the Warden-Commander. “Captain! Keep these people safe. I’ll go in and deal with the darkspawn directly.”

“You have my word,” the Captain promised, bowing with crossed arms as we forged onward into the city.

 

The darkspawn inside the city were more organized than any had been even during the Blight; they set up ambushes for us, barricades that they hid behind, and all manner of traps for us to trip over. Luckily, Castor and Nathaniel were both practiced in spotting traps—very few went beyond their notice.

Less luckily, the darkspawn had a significant advantage over us in terms of numbers. Even with the city guards, Amaranthine was overrun. Like the hydra’s heads, for each darkspawn we killed, two more seemed to take its place. I was so caught up in the act of battle that I did not think beyond the next spell, the next target. I did not have the wherewithal to remember where they were streaming in from.

As the only mage, it fell to me to keep my friends going. I reserved most of my mana for maintaining shields or casting emergency healing spells, relying on the basic magic bursts from my staff to act as weapons. Being small had an advantage here; with Nathaniel standing nearby, it was far less likely for me to be under heavy attack. He was bigger, and thus a greater threat.

“Help!” To our right, a guard desperately fended off several darkspawn, but I could see her arm heavily bleeding. Her partner was crumpled beside her—probably dead. I caught a genlock in the back with a burst of ice, pushing him just enough that he toppled over.

The hurlock next to him whirled to face me, but caught an arrow in the face. I glanced over my shoulder to flash a thankful smile to Nathaniel. He nodded back and fired three more arrows into the darkspawn around the unfortunate guardswoman. I cast a shield over her and beckoned her to us. She didn’t hesitate, didn’t even reach down to her companion.

“Thanks,” she breathed, pressing her back against the box-barricade the darkspawn had set up. It was working in our favor right now, at least. She winced as she looked at her arm, and I leaned in.

“I can stop the bleeding,” I said, though she didn’t even flinch at my presence. Perhaps she’d worked with mages before. Regardless, as soon as she nodded, I pushed gentle healing magic into her wound. No darkspawn blood had tainted it, thankfully, but the damage was extensive nonetheless.

I patched her together while Nathaniel and Littlefoot kept more darkspawn off of us. There were still so many, though… A veritable wave came at us. We couldn’t hope to catch them all before they arrived, so instead I pulled the guardswoman to her feet and cast several random, desperate paralyzing glyphs and we dashed away.

It brought us only a brief respite, only long enough to regroup with Castor and Darrien. Panting, we stared down the horde, momentarily frozen—but only momentarily. We shattered back into action when the first darkspawn arrow hit the ground at our feet; Darrien roared at them, a challenge and a warning, before running right into the fray.

Castor tossed a flask of acid to one side of them, and Nathaniel chased it with arrows that glinted gold in the sun’s afternoon light. Littlefoot took up a more defensive position, actively downing any darkspawn that breached the protective barrier of Darrien and the guards. I cast more shields and strengthened those already in place. With the adrenaline that pounded through my system, I spared enough power to enchant the weapons closest to me with ice, allowing them to slice more sharply than before, with greater bite.

We kept this up as well as we could, even as wave after wave of darkspawn threw themselves upon our weapons. Slowly, we were pushed further back, until we reached a point of stalemate near the chantry. Our line held there, perhaps bolstered by the knowledge that there were citizens in the chantry—those who could not fight, who we were trying to save. But neither did the darkspawn slow…

Until nightfall.

 

As the sun set, the darkspawn seemed to retreat. Or, if not retreat, there were less than there had been. Though we were bone-weary and could barely lift our weapons, we managed to clear the city of the darkspawn. The fighting outside the city walls continued, but we had conquered Amaranthine proper. I slumped against my staff, allowing it to help bear my weight. “Thank the Creators,” I panted.

Darrien grunted in agreement, and soon Captain Aidan sent us to rest in the Chantry while his guards kept the city secure. I realized I was starving as I stepped inside and the smell of some sort of food met my nose.

It was bean stew, it turned out, which was far from my favorite, but I wasn’t about to be picky. Instead, I thanked the kindly woman who offered me a bowl and ate it all. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. As a Grey Warden, my appetite was larger than would be expected for someone of my size—to make up for the stamina that allowed me to do such things as fight all day. To add to that, I had actively used many sustained spells, and those, too, deepened my hunger.

But I didn’t dare ask for another bowl, nor did the other Grey Wardens. The townspeople around us, the soldiers outside, and the city’s guards all needed to eat just as we did. It would be improper to demand food that had not been offered.

Despite my exhaustion, I found it hard to sleep. Worries hounded me, thoughts invading my every moment. Amaranthine, like all the major cities, had an alienage, but I saw very few elves among the refugees in the Chantry. It pulled at my heart. Had they been the first to die? Had they been turned away in favor of humans? Was anyone else still alive out there, hiding in their homes? (Where was it the darkspawn came from, how did they know, what could we do…)

I curled up in a corner, Littlefoot beside me. He fell asleep immediately, like a switch had been flicked. All I could do was watch the refugees around me, watch as frightened children hid against their mother’s skirts, watch the elderly nurse-matron care for wound after wound. (Did they know what was happening? Had anyone brought bandages? Did she have enough elfroot?)

Nothing could calm me.

Darrien and Castor were cuddled together against the opposite wall, fast asleep. Castor could sleep through anything, as we’d learned when camping around Ferelden. Darrien was a much lighter sleeper, usually, but with how tired he must be… I figured he was finding it rather easy to ignore the world, if only for a while. It made me envy them; I wished I could do the same. I wished I had someone to lean against.

Nathaniel came to mind. My face heated at the thought alone, and I shook it away. I shouldn’t want that. I knew what I had to do, and even if… even if Nathaniel felt the same for me, which I dared not dream of, I knew I could not stay with him. I had set myself a path and a job. I needed to keep Thedas whole, and I needed to go to Kirkwall. I needed to help Hawke. ( _But who will help me?_ wondered a traitorous voice, deep in my subconscious.)

I buried my face against Littlefoot’s fur, hating myself a little for thinking about these things even as people died to protect the city. We were at war, even if it was a relatively small one. I needed to sleep so that I could go back out and fight when the time came. I needed to be ready, mind and body.

If only my body wasn’t such a traitor; if only my mind would get on board with my plans, would fucking let me sleep.

 

I awoke before I realized I had even fallen asleep, the distinct smell of mabari still strong in my nostrils, though Littlefoot had moved. A weight pressed against my side, too tall to be Littlefoot. My eyes caught on Darrien and Castor still seated against the opposite wall. Darrien, awake, met my eyes and raised his brows with a minute tilt of his head to my side. I frowned, mind fuzzy. Who was there? Who could it possibly be?

_Nathaniel._

A surprised gasp brought his scent to my nose, replacing Littlefoot’s. He smelled better (obviously, hardly worth mentioning) and I tried not to press closer, to seek more of it. The warring thoughts made my body freeze, and the change from relaxed to tense, apparently, was more than enough to attract attention. Nathaniel woke up, blinking blearily at the Chantry and the stone walls we rested against.

I didn’t dare move. I barely breathed for those seconds as he woke up, darting my eyes to Darrien in a silent plea for aid, but Darrien only smirked in return. Silently, I cursed him and all his children—then, rethinking given his current status as not only a Grey Warden but part of a monogamous homosexual relationship, decided to curse him and his blade instead.

“Are you alright, Vir’era?” My head spun to face Nathaniel at the apparently-innocent question. His eyes were clear now, though, and he seemed completely awake.

“Um,” I replied, intelligently.

“Don’t mind him,” Darrien called out. “He’s even worse at speaking than usual when he’s just woken up.”

Embarrassed, I made shushing noises in Darrien’s direction, but this only seemed to amuse my audience.

“It’s probably worse because—”

I made a half-panicked sound as I tried to gather the right words to speak over Darrien’s voice, hopefully distracting Darrien from saying anything. (Of course, I realized later that I had never told anyone—let alone Darrien—about my feelings for Nathaniel, so my panic was likely entirely unnecessary.)

My sound, combined with the general discomfort of sleeping whilst sitting against stone and surrounded by restless refugees, brought Castor round to wakefulness. As deep as he slept, he was a fast riser. Within ten minutes, all four of us had bowls of the same bean stew (if a bit thinner than the night before), and some kind soul had given Littlefoot a helping of unidentifiable slop.

We wolfed down the food, hunger still growling like an animal in our bellies, and then prepared ourselves to fight. Weapons were checked over once, twice, thrice; arrows were gathered and adjusted for optimal use; armor was cleaned or patched as needed. In the back of my mind, I kept continual concentration on my breathing, keeping it steady and even. I could not panic now. Later, maybe. If I made it through today (though I didn’t doubt I would, not after living through an Archdemon), I would let myself cry all I could cry when I returned to Vigil’s Keep.

I was stretching with Littlefoot when a soldier ran in, shouting for the Warden-Commander. “They’re in the city again!” he cried. “We don’t know how they got in, and they’re coming too fast for us!”

Castor wasted little time, asking only if all known entrances were blocked. As soon as that was confirmed, he signaled for the Wardens to gather and leave, and I did not dally.

 

The scene outside was a foreign one, somehow, though simultaneously full of déjà vu. From somewhere near, darkspawn streamed into the streets. I saw at least five dead soldiers—and while there were certainly many more darkspawn corpses, there were not nearly as many soldiers in the first place, and I began to worry.

“We need to figure out where they’re coming from,” Castor told us, unsheathing his daggers and heading straight for the thick of the fight.

“Plan?” Darrien asked, loud enough to be heard, as he followed. He swung his greatsword through two Hurlocks dumb enough to rush him.

“Not yet.” As Castor ducked a blow, I began casting shields and icing weapons. An arrow slipped over my head, and though I did not see its mark, Littlefoot followed its path with teeth bared.

We fell quickly into the rhythm of fighting, working easily and readily together. It felt almost like a dance—or how I imagined a dance might feel. Though Nathaniel had not been with us long, and the five of us had not specifically practiced together, it was still easy enough to predict where Nathaniel’s next arrow would land or which direction Castor would jump next. It left time to observe the patterns of the darkspawn’s attack.

They were not coming from inside the Chantry or directly near it, as we were able to push them back. Nor were they coming from the south, since the greatest number attacked from the north. We rallied the exhausted city guard to keep pressing north. Soon, we discovered that, while many darkspawn went into and out of various homes and establishments, the greatest number exited the Crown & Lion, and none entered.

With only nods and a single jerk of Castor’s head to the inn, we were all on the same page. Darrien broke down the door, an annoying habit of his when in the middle of a fight, and we followed him in. Darkspawn screamed in welcome. We killed them in thanks.

It took only a small amount of searching to find that the darkspawn were using the same tunnels that the smugglers had been using before Castor shut them down. He grumbled something about paperwork and inefficient bureaucracy while we edged through. I didn’t dare use any magic to light our way for fear of attracting attention to us while we were in a vulnerable position—thankfully, Castor agreed with me. Since Darrien and I, as elves, had superior night vision, he put Darrien in front and me in the back to keep a lookout and lead the way.

It was still slow going. The tunnels led all the way from the Crown & Lion through to a little den beyond Amaranthine’s walls. And in this den, yet more darkspawn greeted us. Well, perhaps not so much greeted as were entirely ambushed by us. We had the element of surprise; it would have been a waste not to use it.

There were perhaps fifty or sixty darkspawn total in the tunnels under Amaranthine, and it was a slaughter. We didn’t even sustain more than minor cuts and bruises, things I was easily able to heal so we could move on. I almost pitied the creatures, but the feeling didn’t last long.

Neither did the rest of the darkspawn. At least, not those that had come to attack the city. We emerged from the smuggler’s den into a small house at the edge of the city and killed our way to the front gates. Two ogres were there, with an emissary and a few Hurlocks keeping the soldiers from doing more than throwing their lives at the large, horned darkspawn.

We did not allow that to continue. We were Grey Wardens. We killed darkspawn.

And ogres were no exception, regardless of size or ferocity.

Our mere presence bolstered the morale of those soldiers who still stood against these straggling darkspawn. One man rather courageously skewered the emissary and lifted its dying form over his head. Castor directed the soldiers to concentrate on the smaller darkspawn while we took on the ogres.

One tried to rush me. I stood still long enough that it could not change its course, then jumped from its path, Nathaniel’s hand yanking me out of even the ogre’s furthest reach. Littlefoot bit a tendon in its ankle, and though it didn’t draw much blood, it did prevent the ogre from charging again. I stabbed ice into its side before it could kick Littlefoot too hard, letting the mabari run to safety.

Nathaniel’s arrows, even with a sturdy longbow, were not sharp enough to dig in through the massive amount of muscle clinging to the ogre’s frame. Littlefoot’s teeth would be no better, and I didn’t think burning or freezing the thing to death would be efficient or particularly effective.

Thankfully, Darrien’s large blade sank into its neck before we had to think of something new and creative.

And the battle was won, though the war was not over.

 

We didn’t have long to hang around after that. There was no further great threat of darkspawn at Amaranthine—just as the talking darkspawn from earlier had said, they’d retreated from here to attack Vigil’s Keep. I could only hope that Neria and those left with her could hold their own against the horde. The soldiers were well-trained and Anders was an adept healer. Surely they’d be fine.

After all, our destination was not Vigil’s Keep. We would go to the source, to the Mother’s Lair, and slay her. Was it revenge? Were Velanna or Sigrun here, I would say it certainly was. But for us, perhaps it was only duty.

We rode our horses hard to the Dragonbone Wastes, and left them within earshot, but just out of sight, of the battle we could both hear and feel. Darkspawn fought darkspawn, the two tribes pitted against each other in a cruel facsimile of human wars.

As a third party, we had no allies there. While some darkspawn were too preoccupied with their already-decided battles, that did not mean we went ignored. We were forced into a tight group, holding positions close to each other as we grit our teeth and felled darkspawn after darkspawn.

It was easier to keep shields up around a group so close together, though dodging blows was inarguably more difficult. More than once, an arrow hit me hard enough to bruise—too slow to cut thanks to my shield, but able to hit me because I could not dodge without landing on someone else’s blade. I would be sore when it was over.

Castor ran out to jump atop an ogre’s back, and Littlefoot immediately closed the hole in our ranks. I sent a large fireball in Castor’s direction, clearing the swarm of smaller ‘spawn that swept in to threaten us.

I wasn’t able to watch Castor kill the ogre, needing instead to concentrate on my own fight. It didn’t take long, though, for us to lay waste to what darkspawn were in our immediate vicinity. Those beyond our sight—the ones we could feel teeming all over the wastes like pins and needles in phantom limbs—they paid no mind to us, nor us to them. We each had greater concerns.

Concerns that lay inside the Tevinter ruins. We heard a high dragon’s scream, and bolted into the ruins—that was not something we wanted to deal with. Perhaps we could. Perhaps it wouldn’t be an issue at all. But we did not need to risk it, not with the Mother so close.

As we advanced through the ruins, mindful of magic darkspawn traps both (for who knows what could reside there?), two large presences became ever more prominent. The larger, I knew without a doubt, must be the Architect. It felt the same as it had in the silverite mines, with the same pressure looming, not quite touching, just out of reach. The other… that was a Broodmother, and thus, must be the Mother. Tendrils seemed to slide over me, examining for any weakness. She knew we were here. She was waiting.

But so was the Architect.

“Wardens,” he greeted, and though I could not see his eyes for the mask he wore, I swore he was peering at us. “I have met only one of you before, but I have heard of your deeds through Amaranthine.”

“You must be the Architect,” Castor returned, not even glancing to me for confirmation.

Something that passed for a smile passed over the Architect’s features, but it made me sick. Beside him, the dwarf drew her sword, and he calmed her quietly. When he turned to us, he seemed to be looking at me. “I believe I owe you an apology. When last we met, I intended to explain myself. Fate, however, intervened.”

This time, Castor did glance at me, and I shrugged. “Then explain now,” I requested as the Architect floated (somehow) down from the balcony where he stood.

“As you say.” He landed without a sound before continuing. “I sent the Withered to ask for the Grey Wardens’ help. I should have anticipated you would view our approach as an attack.” He sighed. “I am rarely able to judge how your kind will react. It was most unfortunate.”

Darrien sneered. “‘Unfortunate’ is spilling a glass of wine. The deaths of a battle are not ‘unfortunate.’” Castor nodded, seeming to agree.

But still, something caught Castor’s notice, even as he agreed with Darrien’s sentiment. He shifted the way he always did before asking a particularly pertinent question, ensuring all eyes were on him. “You wanted our help?” he asked, voice carefully light. “What for?”

“My kind has ever been driven to seek out the Old Gods,” the Architect said. He looked somewhere to our left—where the Mother was, I think—with a painful expression. “This is our nature. When we find one, a Blight is begun.

“Each time, we attack your surface lands, and you fight back until we are defeated. To break the cycle, my brethren must be freed of their compulsion. For that… I need Grey Warden blood.”

In the silence, I heard the breaths of each person. The Architect’s was loudest, labored somehow, as though merely existing was exhausting, and I wondered if that were true. I didn’t know how being a darkspawn changed things.

Castor tilted his head ever so slightly, and I could picture him narrowing his eyes clear as day. “How would this free the darkspawn?”

The Architect nodded. “In order to become what you are, you drink the blood of my kind. To transform. Similarly, we must transform. I have created a version of your Joining that uses the blood of Grey Wardens. You take the taint into yourself. What we take is your resistance.” I could feel Nathaniel stiffen, though I could not see him. Castor did not move, listening carefully; Darrien stayed similarly still, though I couldn’t say if it was for similar reasons.

“That is how my brethren are freed,” the Architect continued. “In your blood lies the key to their immunity against the call of the Old Gods.”

“And how do the darkspawn change after?” Castor did not yet draw any conclusions, gathering instead all the information he could to himself that he could make an accurate assessment. I only hoped it would bring him to the same conclusions as me: the Architect could be a valuable ally.

“Once they are freed, the darkspawn think for themselves; they speak, they act. Some, however, have reacted poorly.” Something recalcitrant seemed to emanate from the Architect—perhaps he did regret the mistakes he’d made. “They are flawed, and they rage against me. The Mother gathers them to stop me… as she seeks to stop you.

“I cannot defeat the Mother alone, and I cannot free the darkspawn unless she is defeated. Our goals are the same,” he concluded, inclining his head ever so slightly towards Castor. I could almost hear the wheels turning in his head, whirring as they sped to comprehend all possible conclusions to this interaction.

Perhaps sensing that Castor desired yet more information, a greater bargain, the Architect offered one last statement: “Help me kill the Mother, and after it is done, I will leave to continue my work.”

There, the conversation became Castor’s to control, and he did so like a master. He pulled the knowledge of what the Mother was out (a ‘most flawed creation’), an admission that the Architect himself did not know why he was already ‘freed.’ I waited, worrying my lip as Castor made his decision.

“Very well,” Castor said. “You have an ally.”

“Commander, are you certain? This is a darkspawn,” Nathaniel argued. “We don’t know what it is capable of.”

Castor turned a bit to look Nathaniel in the eye. “I don’t think we can risk fighting two powerful darkspawn in a row right now, and if he keeps his end of the deal, I think we’ll be better off.”

I don’t know that Nathaniel was particularly convinced, but he just pursed his lips and nodded.

That sickening not-smile spread over the Architect’s face again, like something crawling up my spine. “Thank you, Commander,” he said. “I realize what a leap of faith this is for you. I hope that I prove worthy of your trust.” He looked to the left again, gesturing. “The Mother lies ahead, Wardens. I cannot approach her physically—her children protect her from my power. But when you reach her, I will do whatever I can to help you. You have my promise.”

A darkspawn’s promise—no matter how intelligent the darkspawn—meant little to any of us, but Castor only nodded, and we were on our way. I could feel the Architect’s covered gaze clinging to my back until at last we rounded a corner, and left his line of sight.

“Let’s get this over with,” Darrien grumbled, just as disturbed by it all as I was. Castor’s only answer was to draw his daggers as some of the Children approached.

We hadn’t seen any of the Children outside the ruins, and there had been few in the upper levels, but they skittered and crawled over everything in sight. We were the only things for them to fight, and thus we were the only things they charged.

At least, as it turned out, they were highly flammable. Every so often, I would ask my companions to duck, and then send a roar of flame over their heads, completely incinerating an entire swath of the disgusting things.

We reached the Mother quickly enough. She wanted to reason with us. The Architect even showed his face in some kind of astral projection to have a few words. They didn’t count on Darrien.

“No,” he said, as the Mother opened her mouth, and he glared at the Architect for good measure. “No, shut the fuck up, both of you. I don’t give half a shit what you have to say. I’m tired. I’m hungry. And I don’t have the patience for this. We’re just gonna fucking fight, got it?”

“You want a fight?” the Mother challenged, and Darrien just sighed.

“Fucking sure.”

We charged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so. i'm gonna give a quick little warning that i'm falling behind on chapters I have already written, but i'm trying to rectify that asap. so hopefully i'll be able to maintain my weekly updates, but since i'm also starting a tefl course in march that will take a few weekends away from me, i'm not sure. if all goes well, i'll at least be able to finish twc before a minor hiatus like before so i can catch up and then start in on posting the next installment, Kirkwall, but i'm not sure as of right now. i'll keep you guys updated! as of right now, i'm not entirely sure how much longer twc will be. i'm anticipating 10 or 11 chapters total. we'll see. definitely not more than 13, though.
> 
> obviously this means it'll cover rather a bit more than awakening did, but i feel it makes more sense that way.


	8. in which the mother is defeated

Darrien managed to reach the Mother, but regardless of how sharp his blade was, her tentacles were too thick and bounced it back after only the smallest of nicks. The rebound sent him back a few paces, and as he regained his footing, more darkspawn came to protect the Mother.

I then became more preoccupied with keeping myself and Littlefoot safe. I was able, at least, to cast shields over everyone before my attention became consumed. I was not surrounded, but it was a near thing—and likely I had Nathaniel to thank for that, given the way he drew some darkspawn to him (and, consequently, away from me).

The cavern was taller than Denerim’s palace, with its ceiling nearly completely shrouded in shadow, but it was not a wide place. I could not be frivolous about aiming my spells, especially not into the fray, or I would risk injuring a friend. But I could blast fireballs to my heart’s desire at any of the darkspawn or tentacles that rose around the edges—and did so.

Once or twice, this tactic even pushed some of my victims into the lava below. I wasn’t sorry for them in the slightest; in fact, I had to stifle a whoop of delight when I realized just how forceful my fireballs had become.

Littlefoot was understandably hesitant to follow the trail of heat that such spells left behind, but he was dutiful in watching my back, at the very least.

That’s not to say that we were so talented and so brilliant that we did not get hurt at all. We already had bruises and other minor injuries from the battles before, and this mixed with poor sleep, topped with worse food? We were not, in fact, performing at our best.

The shields I was maintaining started to fail. Castor was best at dodging (that one time with the Archdemon’s foot notwithstanding), so I let his go first. He noticed it quickly, when a blade managed to nick his arm instead of simply bumping into it. I didn’t have time to apologize, though; a hurlock emissary had decided we must wage war, finding me to be its natural enemy.

I blocked the unnatural magics it wielded by hitting them with my own ice bursts. Mostly, I was only able to because the hurlock was directly in front of me—the spells would meet in the middle like some kind of duel. But I didn’t have enough attention to spare for a single hurlock, emissary or not. There were five of us, and many more of them. I had to end this quickly.

I blasted a large fireball towards the emissary. It was mostly for show, all bark and no bite, and it didn’t burn hot. But it was the distraction I needed, and as it barreled down, I became a mabari and chased it. I saw the hurlock duck to the side just in the nick of time, and while it was still stunned, I pounced.

Darkspawn blood tasted no better then than it had at my Joining, and I growled as the life of this disgusting creature spilled between my paws. An arrow caught the foot of a genlock that had been charging me, and I pressed the advantage, tackling it to the ground. This one was more aware than the emissary had been, though, and I got a dagger slashed against my side for my troubles. I was lucky it hadn’t impaled me, but I could not pause long. I killed the monster, and stood up an elf.

With one hand pressed to my side, I healed as much of the slash as I could. It had stretched, opening wider as my body changed its shape, and the pain made me stumble. But I did not black out. I figured another scar wouldn’t be unusual. I was a Grey Warden, after all.

I leaned against my staff until the pain receded, sending out pulses of magic at anything which came too close, then returned to the battle in earnest. There weren’t as many darkspawn now, though from the shadows at the furthest edges, I did not think that meant we’d seen the last of them. Reinforcements were coming.

Sparing only the barest amount of time for thought, I pulled up my mana reserves and spammed the entrance of the unintended arena with as many paralysis glyphs as I could maintain. None of us would last long enough to defeat the Mother and get out alive otherwise. We didn’t have that kind of energy left.

“Vir’era! Duck!” Castor shouted. I fell to the ground. An axe sliced the air where my neck had been. There was blood on the axe, but I couldn’t tell in the off-colored and dim light whether it was human or darkspawn. I jammed the blade of my staff into the hurlock that had attacked, and it dropped the axe.

It wasn’t dead, though. One arm scrabbled for me, claws catching and scratching on my sleeve. I shoved my weight backwards, jerking my staff from the creature’s abdomen. It fell, and I jumped out of its reach, unsure how long it would take for the thing to die.

When I looked for the others, Nathaniel was firing arrows rapidly into the darkspawn that had been caught by my trap. Castor and Darrien were tag-teaming tentacles. No other darkspawn lingered here. I took a deep breath, and nodded to Castor when he caught my eye.

The Mother didn’t like us, to say the least, and though it didn’t much look like Castor and Darrien were doing much harm to her, they were certainly angering her. Her swinging tentacles became more unpredictable, and as I drew nearer, one caught Darrien in the back of the knees, sending him down awkwardly, the force pushing him into a painful-looking roll.

With neither Darrien nor Castor’s blades causing enough damage, I ruled out brute force as a tactic. We needed to stop the tentacles, though, if we wanted to get to the Mother’s main body. Or at least stop some of them—if we could get even three out of commission, I was certain that Castor could weasel his way to something vital.

But while I tried to think of a solution that didn’t involve possibly hitting Castor or Darrien with magic, our esteemed leader was distracted by trying to help his boyfriend, and Nathaniel was starting to get overwhelmed. I was out of time.

“Fuck,” I whispered, praying to Andruil to guide my aim.

Using Winter’s Grasp (and adding a prayer to whoever that I would have enough mana left), I managed two clean shots. The first one missed its intended target, but it still hit further back, and the Mother did scream. The second caught one of the front tentacles, freezing it in place.

It also made me woozy. My vision began to tunnel, blackness seeping into the edges, and my heart couldn’t keep up with the demands I’d made of my body. But I had to keep going. I had no lyrium, no knowledge of blood magic. I could, hopefully, do at least this much.

All tentacles began to focus on Castor (with Darrien still down for the count). I breathed in and started to aim.

Neria beat me to it. I almost finished passing out when she appeared, rushing past me with her sword held aloft. Maybe it was the shock that kept me awake as she charged, with Justice on her heels. If so, it’s also the shock that gave Justice the kind of glowing golden aura that he’d only had in the Fade.

I watched dumbly as Neria froze everything in her path with greater precision than I’d managed and then shoved her sword through the Mother’s head. She showed up at the last minute and saved the day. She must be blessed.

The Mother didn’t even scream as she died. Maybe she couldn’t, with Neria’s blade so firmly in her mouth. I don’t think any of us cared. Neria stumbled back down the body, tugging her sword after her. There were still darkspawn around (I could feel them), but most seemed to be fleeing. Just a few threw their lives at us.

Justice and Velanna took care of them. Anders, I noticed, was leaning over Nathaniel, who was on the ground. Neria and Castor helped Darrien up and away from the dead broodmother.

Wait.

My heart skipped a beat, and I stumbled my way to Nathaniel’s side. “Is he alright?” I demanded, all but falling to the ground when I arrived. Nathaniel didn’t stir, but I could see his chest moving; he was, at least, breathing.

Anders gave me an amused smirk that I deliberately ignored, but nodded. “He will be, once I’m done. Nothing big, so don’t worry. I think he just got hit on the head.” He sighed a bit, patting a patch of skin now empty of wound or scar. “Too bad I didn’t get to see that.”

I didn’t quite manage to not roll my eyes. “Good. I—we don’t have enough Wardens yet.” Even as the words passed my lips, I knew the lie was obvious.

“Right, of course,” Anders answered, snorting. He definitely knew. I didn’t know how, but it didn’t matter. Neria and Castor brought Darrien for healing (his side was massively bruised), and Anders’ attention became consumed with reassuring Castor, instead.

 

Justice carried Nathaniel out of the ruins. He was the only one strong enough. (Well, Darrien may have been able to, but he refused to even entertain the idea.) I tried not to hover, but from the way the once-spirit seemed to feel the need to soothe me, I don’t think I was particularly successful.

When we got back to Vigil’s Keep and found it still standing, I almost cried. Oghren met us at the gates, making a big noise about how he had enjoyed being in charge for a while, “but don’ you dare go leavin’ me b’hind all th’ time like that! I’m a soddin’ warrior, not some kinda politician.” (Sigrun, who’d been confined to the infirmary for injuries, was less upset about being left behind… mostly.)

But the end of the darkspawn threats in Amaranthine was nowhere near the same as the end of the Blight. There was no huge amount of power changing hands, no major settlements had been lost… It was almost boring, really.

And boring meant lots of time for thinking.

I hadn’t had time to simply sit and think about everything—or, at least, not enough time to really do more than accept it—since I came to Thedas. As life calmed again, I realized it was the first time since my arrival that I really was just waiting.

I helped to rebuild the parts of the Keep that had been most affected by the Mother’s army, and in the monotonous, mindless movements, my mind wandered. I’d been here for… For over half a year, I thought. It had been summer for a while. It was winter now, and even though Amaranthine was in northern Ferelden, it was still impossible to go outside without a coat for warmth.

How long had it been back home? Maybe this was like Narnia, and no time had passed. Without a way to go back, I had no way of knowing. I missed my family. My friends. My cats. I hadn’t had much of a chance to miss them until now—even in the two months between the Battle of Denerim and being sent to the Keep, I’d often been asked to help with this or that.

I didn’t know what to do with myself, I realized, suddenly. I had made plans, during the Blight. I made plans to stay through that and to help end it; I’d written my journal. But did I want to stay? Should I try to use an eluvian? I might be able to return home…

Home. What was home like? I was starting to forget. Maybe because it’d been so long, but I wasn’t entirely sure. I remembered cats clearly (Link and Zelda, precious pets), and I remembered an apartment where I lived with… one roommate? Two? A friend and maybe someone else. I remembered my parents. A younger brother (cis, unlike me, but happy to call me brother). But where had I lived? The name of the city escaped me. Somewhere big. Or, at least, bigger than Amaranthine. Bigger than Denerim, maybe.

My head ached when I tried to remember too much. I wasn’t sure what that meant, either.

 

[A series of letters received and sent by Vir’era in the days following the Mother’s defeat.]

Lethallin,

Don’t worry. Zevran and I will be fine. He says to make sure you know that he is absolutely taking care of me—and while it’s true, you and I both know he was talking about sex. Which I’d rather not discuss in a letter. You’re a precious friend to us, as well, lethallin. We won’t let you down.

I hope Amaranthine calms soon. You deserve a break. I don’t know how you deal with it all. I’d surely go mad if Zevran was not with me.

Pass my congratulations to Oghren. I don’t miss his smell, but his stories were nice. And keep an eye on the Howe. The sins of the father should not be placed on the son, but the apple may not fall far from the tree. I would rather not see you or anyone else hurt at the hands of another of his ilk.

If Velanna, as you say it, was once a First, you may need to be careful, Vir’era. There are things a First or a Second is meant to know that you may not, due to your circumstances. But if you wish to end that façade, it may be easier.

Be kind to Edelweiss. I doubt such a reminder is necessary for you, but halla are special creatures. She is at least as smart as Littlefoot, I think. She might even recognize your vallaslin in some way. All who favor Ghilan’nain in their vallaslin also favor the halla, after all. It’s only natural.

Best of luck with the shem, lethallin. May the Dread Wolf never catch your scent.

Theron Mahariel, 9:31 Dragon

 

Theron,

We defeated a broodmother that spoke. She called herself the Mother. I think things may be calmer, now that she’s dead. For a while, at least. I’m just… waiting.

Oghren was delighted to hear you’d not forgotten him, and wanted me to make sure that you two always save a drink for him. Or maybe he said to have a drink for him? He was a bit drunk at the time, celebrating and all.

Nathaniel isn’t like his father, though, I promise you. He won’t hurt us. I think he even likes us. At least, he’s always been friendly to me. (A bit less friendly to Anders, one of our other recruits, but I think that’s more because Anders makes terrible jokes.)

Velanna may suspect that I was never a Second. I don’t know the same spells as a real Second would, and she noticed that, but she’s been helping me. I don’t know if I truly enjoy her company, but… It’s nice, sometimes. To have another Dalish. There’s certain things even the other elves simply don’t understand, but she does. Even if she’s a bit haughty about it all.

I have too much time to think now, and it makes life difficult. What do I do, lethallin? I’m confused. Should I try to return? I think I know a way that I could get back. Or at least I could try. I don’t know if it would work, though.

I don’t know what to do.

But I won’t be able to make a decision until I’ve gone to Kirkwall. And that seems to be a while off yet. So I’ll wait, I suppose.

Tell me what you and Zevran have been doing, if you can.

Dareth shiral, lethallin.

Vir’era Sabrae, 9:31 Dragon

 

Vee – 

I don’t have a lot of time to write lately, sorry. Don’t think I didn’t notice what you did, either, you silly little elf. I know you’re just saying you don’t believe me to make me write more. Although, to be honest, I’m not sure I’d believe me. Except that I am me, of course, so I have to believe me. Right, that sentence got out of hand.

I’m glad to hear you’re doing alright. And you can absolutely still just address the inside of the letter to Alistair. It works just fine for me. You’re my friend. I’m also glad to hear that Theron and Zevran are well. I understand about the no letters thing, really. Zevran’s still on the run from the Crows, isn’t he?

My lovely wife and I are going to be leaving Denerim in two weeks for that tour of Ferelden. We’ll be sure to stop by Vigil’s Keep and say hello to everyone, of course. I’m sure you all miss me dearly. I’m just that kind of person, right?

Keep me updated on how things are going in the Keep. The people side, I mean. Castor sends me weekly reports on the darkspawn or political bits that I need to know about, and I don’t have a place in Warden business anymore. I do like to know how my friends are doing, though. And sometimes hearing from different sources makes sure no one’s lying. (Okay, I admit it, Capella told me that one and she’s the one that really cares about making sure no one’s lying like that. I wouldn’t think any of you are liars. Usually.)

Speaking of Capella, she’s asked me to let you know that she heard your clan had safe passage to the outskirts of Kirkwall. I don’t know where she heard it, but it’s good news, anyway. I’m sure Castor would let you go visit if you asked.

Best of luck.

Alistair Theirin, 9:31 Dragon

 

Alistair,

Thank you. It’s good to know they’re safe. I’ll pass the message on to Theron, too. He’ll want to know.

There isn’t much happening right now that you won’t have already heard about by the time you receive this letter. The darkspawn are defeated, we’re able to recruit more actively, and morale is up. You probably know we conscripted Nathaniel Howe; he’s been an asset, really, and actually very friendly. He treats elves better than some of the soldiers.

Anya and Faren sent a letter to Castor recently saying they’re going to be coming back. It seems Orzammar just doesn’t quite suit them anymore. Littlefoot got excited when I told him. I’m sure he’d be happy to see you, too, if you ever get a chance to visit.

You should probably know that Loghain came to the Keep once. Not for long, but it might please you to know he’s been summoned to Orlais. He’ll be stationed there, at least for a while. Poetic justice, right? He deserves worse, but until I can give that to him, I’ll be happy to know he’s at least temporarily in his own personal circle of torment.

Oh, and Oghren’s got a child! Or, he will. Felsi, the dwarven lady from the Spoiled Princess inn, is apparently pregnant now. Neria’s been working with Oghren to help with some issues so that he can be both a good father and a good Grey Warden. As odd and sometimes disgusting as he is, I think that if there’s anyone who can manage such a task, it’s Oghren.

Neria hasn’t heard from Daylen still, but Leliana’s apparently doing well, and Wynne’s had to delay going with Shale to Tevinter because of a meeting called by something I think was called the College of Magi? One of your Chantry mage things.

I look forward to your visit. I know you were just teasing, but I really do miss you—you and Capella both. Things are so different now. Sometimes I think I’ll wake up and find it’s all been a dream.

Dareth shiral.

Vir’era Sabrae, 9:31 Dragon

 

Vir’era,

Thank you for remembering about Cullen. I think I’ll wait and see if he won’t write first when he arrives, but it’s good to know he’s still alive. Though if he takes too long, I will take your advice and just write him myself.

Reconstruction’s going well. Matthias, under apparent advisement of little Kerah, has decided to commission an actual statue to put where Shale used to be. There’s to be a town meeting to figure out just what the statue should look like, but I think most people agree it shouldn’t look anything like a golem. (Except Kerah, but she’s ever the exception.) All that’s left other than that now is things like signs.

There’s a few people who wouldn’t mind joining the Wardens here. Some are a bit young, though, so they’ll have to wait a few years, but Brannen and Maya left just about as soon as I told them you were looking for recruits. I don’t know how long it’ll take them to get to Amaranthine, but keep an eye out for them, alright? They’re good people. Maya’s an elf, so it should be obvious who they are when they arrive.

I’ve never heard of the Legion of the Dead. It sounds ominous but also cool. And it’s a good thing you’ve got another Dalish around. I don’t know how you Wardens deal with magic, so be careful about the apostate. They’re not all bad, sure, but sometimes it’s better to be suspicious.

That said, ‘Nathaniel’s nice,’ huh? Tell me more. I know there’s more. I can sense these things.

I’ve passed on what you said about the King and Queen. Seems to me they’re an odd couple for royals, but I’m also excited to see them in person. We’ll be making a special trip to Redcliffe just for it, me and my whole family. It’s not often you get to see your king! Well, unless you’re you, but I’m just a farmgirl, not a Warden or a Hero of the Blight or anything. So I’ll take what chances I can get.

You said your gods are gone, too, like the Maker turned his back on us. I wonder what that means? I mean, there’s got to be some reason why no one’s gods are still around, right? Have we simply managed to piss them all off?

Write soon,

Mia Rutherford, 9:31 Dragon

 

Mia,

It’s good to hear from you. I’m glad Honnleath is nearly back to normal. The damage there must have been less than in Redcliffe and Denerim. Arl Eamon tells me that Redcliffe is still rebuilding, and there have been a few people who came through Amaranthine on their way to help rebuild Denerim. I suppose it makes sense, though, since they were the sites of much bigger battles than Honnleath.

Brannen and Maya haven’t arrived yet, but I’ve told Neria and Castor, and we’ll be ready when they come. It might be easier to prepare, now, because we’ve just dealt with the darkspawn problem. There will still be some darkspawn attacks, I’m sure, but they won’t be organized, and there will be far fewer. Honestly, it’s a relief, even if dealing with darkspawn is part of my duty as a Grey Warden.

The Legion of the Dead is kind of like the dwarven equivalent to the Grey Wardens, except they don’t have the same abilities as we do, and they work in the Deep Roads to keep the darkspawn away from Orzammar. I don’t know much else about their organization, though. Just that they don’t really seem to get the respect they deserve.

Yes, Nathaniel’s nice. He’s very nice, in fact. But that’s all I’ll be telling you, because that’s really all there is to it.

Capella and Alistair are a bit of an odd couple, I suppose, but they’re very sweet nonetheless. I hope you have fun visiting Redcliffe when they come. Do tell me how it goes.

Our gods didn’t turn from us intentionally, unlike the Maker, but I can see how it might seem unusual. Actually, we do have one god who is still around, the Dread Wolf (Fen’Harel), but he’s a trickster god. I’m not sure if it’s necessarily a good thing, and he has never been much of one to interact with mortals, to my knowledge.

Best wishes.

Vir’era Sabrae, 9:31 Dragon

[End letters.]

 

As time went on, I began to sing again. It was a helpful distraction, in addition to helping me stay calm. I wrote down the lyrics to what songs I could remember, starting to fear I might forget them someday. They weren’t much, but they were tied to my old life, and that alone was enough to make them precious.

It was funny. My memory had always been fickle, but as I spent time in Thedas, it seemed only to grow more fickle. I couldn’t remember what my zip code had been, but I could recite the story of probably any Disney Princess from memory. My phone number was a mystery, but I knew my elementary school mascot (we’d been the Knights).

It was during a sunny day, while I sat and wrote in Edelweiss’ paddock, that Nathaniel came to speak with me. It wasn’t the first time that he’d spoken with me since the Mother’s Lair, but it was the time that changed everything.

“You’re an interesting one, Vir’era,” Nathaniel said as he leaned against the fence. I looked up at him and shrugged. “Not that it’s a bad thing,” he added.

“I mostly just try to help,” I replied.

He nodded. Littlefoot trotted over to greet him, wiggling in his excitement. It made me laugh, and Nathaniel snorted, too. “If I hadn’t seen him in action, I wouldn’t think he’s a war dog. He’s much friendlier than the mabari my father used to keep around.”

I shrugged again. “I think some of that has to do with how they’re treated. Littlefoot is my friend and companion before he is my dog, and I will do anything to keep him safe, just as he will do anything to keep me safe.”

Littlefoot wiggled some more and woofed quietly at me, which was all the affirmation I needed.

“He’s not the only one.”

For a moment, the words didn’t register. I blinked up at him, the sunlight bright enough to make me squint and at just the right angle to halo him. I couldn’t see his expression. My heart beat my ribcage hard enough to bruise the bone. “What?” I asked, smartly.

Nathaniel leaned over the fence, coming close enough that he cast a shadow over my face and allowed me to see his face clearly. I couldn’t read the expression on it, but it was intense. My eyelids fluttered as I smothered a reflex to look away. This was important, whatever it was. He was making sure to look me in the eye; the least I could do is offer the same courtesy, no matter how my heart pounded or mouth dried.

“There’s something about you,” he said. His voice was quiet, but even so, I could hear only it. The background sounds of the Keep (soldiers training, birds calling, people chattering) all fell away. I swallowed. “I find that I can’t stop thinking about you.”

I didn’t know what to say. What was I supposed to say to that? “I…”

“You’re blushing.” He smiled, and my face only grew hotter.

“Y-yes,” I stuttered. Yes what? Yes hello what is happening? Yes I don’t know how to respond. Yes this is elf.

He chuckled and leaned closer. In the winter cold, I could see his breath and swore I could feel it ghost over my face. I could see my reflection in his eyes, and I knew I looked about as dumbstruck as I felt. Yet Nathaniel didn’t seem to mind. One corner of his lips drew up and he tilted his head a bit, making his hair fall over his shoulder like black ribbons. I realized my mouth had fallen open and closed it quickly, licking my lips as I did so.

“Can I kiss you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	9. kiss me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo!! so, i've officially finished writing twc, and it rounds out to a nice 11 chapters, including the sort-of epilogue. honestly not sure how great the last couple chapters are, but they felt necessary, so i'll be putting them up anyway.
> 
> THAT SAID, i will be going to south africa for a couple weeks in february. i don't know if i'll have internet access while i'm there (we're visiting family and my aunts&uncles don't have internet at their homes, from what i understand). if i do, i guarantee that i'll post at least something while i'm gone! it might not be a proper chapter, but i have a few little stories for missing moments that are floating around which i could type up and post. however, of course, since i don't even know if i'll have internet access, i can't tell you when i'd be able to update.
> 
> i promise to update every friday until then, though! and I'll definitely be updating when I get back.

I stared at Nathaniel, utterly stunned. Had I missed something? Had I been too wrapped up in my own mind, my own thoughts of Nathaniel, to notice that he might feel the same way? I knew I was gaping at him, and I knew I should say something (say no, say it can’t happen, explain), but no sound left my throat.

Nathaniel raised an eyebrow, obviously unsure what my silence meant. “Or should I just… I can leave, if you would rather.”

“Yes!” I said, quickly. “I-I mean, no, don’t—don’t leave, I—I, um… Yes to, to, the… the other, um.” Oh gods, no, no, I was supposed to say no! “But I, the thing is, I’m not… I don’t have, um.” Time. Say it, come on now, you’re not that incompetent! “I can’t stay here for long. At the Keep.”

“Then we’ll take what time we can,” he said, and reached a hand out to brush his knuckles across my cheek. “If I must lose you, then at least let me know you.”

I sighed and leaned into his touch, bringing up my hand to hold his in place. I shouldn’t, I knew it would hurt when I left, but… Creators. I wanted to say yes. I wanted whatever time I could have with him. Maybe it was selfish, but he had offered as much. “You—you’re certain you want that?” I asked. “A few stolen months? I-I can’t… I don’t know when I’ll leave, but… I know I must.”

He leaned in and pressed his forehead against mine. “Yes, if you’ll let me.”

The breath left my body and my chest felt painful with a bittersweet anticipation. “Okay,” I whispered, and a song I remembered floated through the haze of my mind. I smiled, even as a tear escaped my eye. I can see the end as it begins… “Just—say you’ll remember me?”

“Always.” He wiped the tear away and pulled my face up, and… we kissed. It was brief, a chaste little kiss, and it was perfect. When we parted, he climbed over the fence to sit with me as I wrote the songs in my journal (the same journal that held my warnings of Thedas’ future).

Nathaniel sat beside me, one arm over my shoulders, and Littlefoot laid his head in my lap. Edelweiss grazed nearby. It was rather idyllic, really. A bit awkward at first, because I wasn’t entirely sure how to act now. We’d just agreed to a romantic relationship, but what did that mean? I wasn’t sure, exactly.

It didn’t seem to matter much. Nathaniel broke the silence by asking what I was writing, and soon he had me singing to him the songs I’d written down. They felt so random, so eclectic. Some didn’t sound right without instruments. But he was patient. If he had any inkling that these were not Dalish songs, the way I tended to lead people to believe, he said nothing.

“There’s a song about the flower Edelweiss,” I told him first, flipping to the page with its lyrics, and showed him. “It goes like this: _Edelweiss, edelweiss, every morning you greet me…_ ”

 

There wasn’t nearly as much to do with the Mother dead and the Architect leading the darkspawn away. Certainly, there were still small bands of darkspawn that we got reports of, but the weeks following the Battle of Amaranthine were mostly quiet. We set to work helping either rebuild the city or gather resources. The Keep hadn’t seen nearly as much damage.

I was mostly on guard duty, escorting caravans to and from the city. As a mage, I wasn’t exactly very strong, and my talents weren’t the sort that would be of great help in a rebuilding effort, but I could protect, at least. Mostly we worked in pairs—one of the senior Wardens with a new one or a recruit—but sometimes Darrien or I would be sent alone.

The recruits Mia had mentioned in her letter, Brannen and Maya, were both rather young, but very eager. Sometimes I would help in their training so they would know how to fight a mage, but mostly they practiced against dummies or with other recruits. We were getting quite a few. Of course, not all made it through the Joining, but at least I could tell Mia that both Brannen and Maya had.

Most of my free time was spent with Nathaniel. He showed me old hiding places he’d used as a child in Vigil’s Keep. Sometimes we’d sit in those little nooks and crannies and just enjoy each other’s company. (And that often meant lots of kissing, which I certainly enjoyed.)

“My sister and I used to play the most horrible pranks on each other,” he told me once. “It got so bad that Father actually had to keep us in completely separate areas of the Keep for a while. Not that that stopped us.”

I laughed as he recounted tales of his childhood, of the things he and his siblings would do to each other. He seemed especially close to his sister and rarely mentioned his brother. I didn’t blame him.

Slowly, I started to return the favor. It was harder, because I knew I might never see my family again, and because I had to maintain the charade of having always been Dalish. I found, though, that with each story I modified, it became easier and easier. I started having trouble remembering which was the lie and which was the truth.

“I have a younger brother,” I said to him, which was true, “in my—my childhood clan. He’s—it’s not from the same clan I left during the Blight, because I didn’t, um, didn’t grow up with them, and I don’t know where they are now.” A bit less true, but… close enough. “He used to be the protective one. I was never very good at that role…”

And later: “You should stop teasing Anders about Ser Pounce-a-lot! He’s a very sweet cat.” When Nathaniel rolled his eyes, I rolled mine back. “You know, I used to have cats. Their names were Link and Zelda. Link used to—he liked to sleep on my face sometimes, which made for an eventful wake up call if something frightened him…”

And once, late in the evening as we watched stars and perhaps talked a bit too seriously about just what Rendon Howe had done during the Blight: “I’ve never been very good with people. Not like you or Castor or Neria. Even Darrien’s better than I am. Um, but, what I mean to say is, you shouldn’t blame yourself for what he did. You couldn’t have known. He was your father, yes, and maybe he was a good father, but sometimes even people who understand other people don’t know until it’s too late.”

Of course, eventually we had to have a certain awkward discussion. I thought it would be best to tell him about my… downstairs, so to speak, before it caused problems or… Well, before it became an issue, at any rate.

“Nate?” I asked one day, as we sat in a dark crawlspace above the throne room. We couldn’t hear what was happening down there, but if we peeked through the boards at just the right angle, we could sometimes see Castor talking with the various banns that came to call.

Nathaniel squeezed my arm, likely sensing my trepidation. I was bad at masking it in situations like this. “What is it?”

I took a deep breath to steady myself and leaned into his touch. “I need to—there’s something you sh-should know, um, about me. Before…” I tugged on my sleeve. “Just, it’s probably good—I mean, it might be easier, um, if you know.”

“Know what, Vee?” I didn’t look at him, but I knew he was probably doing that thing where he pursed his lips a bit and his eyebrows scrunched up. He caught my hand, stopping my twitching. “Is something wrong? Do—have I done something wrong? I know the Dalish do things differently, but I never meant to insult you.”

“No, no, you’ve been wonderful, really, it’s not-it’s not you.” I rubbed my thumb against his, soothed somewhat by the feeling of his warm hand holding mine. “I, um, ir abelas, I’m not completely sure how to say this. It was—well, I haven’t exactly, um, been in a position like this before, where it would be really relevant, but it’s probably better if I tell you, s-so that it, ah, so that it isn’t a surprise, later.”

I hadn’t stuttered quite this much when talking with Nathaniel alone since we kissed the first time, not even when I told him amended versions of my past. He noticed this, and I could tell from the way he pulled me just that much closer, but he said nothing of it, because he was a kind man. “I understand,” he said, instead, his voice gentle like a spring breeze, and it warmed my heart. “Tell me?”

I nodded once to steel my courage. “Yes.” He squeezed my hand gently, and I looked him in the eye. This wasn’t something I should tell his hands or his legs, after all. “Do you remember, not so long ago, when… When Velanna asked i-if I was a man or a woman?”

He nodded. “It was a surprising question.”

“Not for me,” I confessed. I looked down at our hands for a moment, before looking back up. “It’s a question I have answered many times.” The words began to spill out of me in a rush, and I didn’t try to stop or filter them. “It’s not—not just because of how I look, even though that’s also part of it, I think, but—well, the Qunari, they have a word for it, they call people like me aqun-athlok, an-and I don’t know how to explain it to you, because it’s not something necessarily easy to comprehend, but—”

“Vir’era,” he interrupted, lifting his hand from mine to hold my face. “You don’t need to panic.” His eyebrows had drawn together again. “If it’s distressing for you, because of the anxiety which you told me about, we can—”

“No!” I exclaimed, taking my turn to interrupt him. “I-I mean, yes, that’s—that’s part of it, but it’ll be worse if I don’t tell you, and I know it’s obviously not very easy now, and I’m sorry, ir abelas, but I need to say it. Can—will you…” I huffed and took his hand in both of mine. It was warm, and calloused, and paler than mine. “I was born a girl,” I said, at last.

He tilted his head and blinked, taken aback. “A girl?” he repeated.

I looked down again. “Yes. But when I got older, I knew it wasn’t right for me. I am… I have never quite been a girl, not the way I was supposed to be. And—there were, um, potions, that I took, and that’s why I don’t… I don’t have a high voice, and I don’t have breasts, or a more feminine body, because of those potions.”

I didn’t know how it was something that stayed. I wasn’t taking any hormones anymore. I should have regained the womanly shape. My voice would always be lower, of course, but… Well, I was completely confused why I would still have a vagina, but otherwise manage a masculine body shape. Must be magic.

Nathaniel squeezed my hand. “I see, I think. You refused the role you were born into for the one that better suited you.”

Surprised at his calm reaction, I let out a short laugh. “That, um, that’s one way of putting it.”

“But you are, then, a man now?” He was confused, and not without reason.

“In mind and soul, I am,” I said. “But I still have… My body is not able to change entirely with me, the way I might want it to.”

His eyes searched my face, and I knew he was trying to see any lingering proof that I’d been born into a female body. It’s what everyone did. “I’m not entirely sure I understand.”

Blunt route it is, then. He probably knew what I was hinting at, but I could hardly blame him for wanting it spelled out clearly. “I have no breasts, and I have a man’s voice, but I do still have a vagina.”

Bright red blush flooded Nathaniel’s face at the word, and I could only just see it in the light that peeked through the boards of our hidey-hole. “Oh,” he said. I snorted. “Oh,” he repeated. “That, ah. That changes… things.” I must have looked particularly nervous, because he immediately amended his statement. “Not-not everything! Just. I wasn’t certain, you know, just how you’d like to… And I suppose, if it comes up we can still, but, ah.”

“Oh!” It was my turn to blush, and I quickly looked away. “Oh, um, well, that—er, that’s. That’s something I.” I coughed. “It’s, um. Cleaner. To use…”

“Indeed.”

I stared at our hands, still joined, and swallowed. We didn’t say anything for a long moment. Castor laughed at something in the main hall, and Oghren bellowed something unintelligible. Somewhere above us, in the walls of the Keep, a mouse scratched at the wood.

Nathaniel shifted and kissed the top of my head. “With the exception of that, I don’t think I see you any different now. Well, maybe a little, because now I know something of your past which does paint a slightly different picture, but… I do still want to be with you, Vir’era.”

What had I done to deserve this man? I turned and pressed my face against his shoulder, mumbling into his tunic, “Thank you.” I didn’t want him to see me cry.

How was I supposed to leave him behind?

 

Castor began sending groups of Wardens out to hunt down whatever darkspawn remained on the surface and to map out the Deep Roads within the month. As Warden-Commander and arl of Amaranthine, he wasn’t able to go unless the situation required someone of his station, but he made certain to put a senior Warden in charge of each group. It was easier when the Orlesian Wardens sent over another pair of their Warden-Lieutenants (including, to my surprise, Warden Stroud) and when Anya and Faren came back from Orzammar.

Still, I couldn’t avoid my duty, regardless of whatever mental issues I had. The only consolation I had was that Castor generally allowed us to pick our own teams for each mission.

At one point, Castor sent me to take care of rumors we’d heard about darkspawn near Highever. I brought Nathaniel and Littlefoot, of course, as well as Justice and Sigrun. It was unlikely that we’d need more people, since it was only rumors. With darkspawn, however, it was best to at least investigate any rumors. It made the people calmer, too.

Highever was about a day’s walk from Amaranthine, and only went slightly faster with horses. There wasn’t much coin to spare at the Keep that wasn’t being used for rebuilding, even for ventures like this, so we camped outside the city instead of going to an inn.

Nathaniel and Sigrun volunteered to find water and firewood, leaving me setting up three tents with Justice. But the warrior did not comment on my relationship with Nathaniel, as I’d feared—instead, he asked questions I had not been prepared for. “Vir’era,” he said, and his voice still carried a quietly monumental weight to it, even outside the Fade. “I am curious to know your opinion of Templars.”

“Templars?” I repeated, glancing up from pushing a nail in for a tent.

“Yes.”

I hit the nail once more with my hammer, then paused in my work to look at the spirit. “Why, if I may ask?”

Justice met my gaze steadily. Kristoff’s body was holding up remarkably well, really, for something so long dead. I couldn’t decide if the continued action thanks to Justice was helping or not. “Anders speaks of them with anger. Velanna with masked fear. Even Neria holds more distrust toward them than any feeling of sympathy, and she has proven to be a most sympathetic woman.”

“Ah.” He was essentially trying to comprehend if the Templars were truly as unjust as someone like Anders would describe them. I huffed. “Templars are… a complicated matter, I’ve found. At least, among the shemlen settlements, they are. For the Dalish, it is simple. We have no Templars, after all, so any story of them is a tragedy or a horror, with young ones being torn from their parents because of the gifts they are born with.

“But for the shemlen…” I pursed my lips, trying to accurately sum up what I knew of Templars. “Most seem to think Templars are necessary. Even those who sympathize with mages often think there is no other choice, or perhaps that it is the lesser of two evils.”

Justice crossed his arms. “Anders accuses them of great injustices.”

I smiled sadly. “Yes. And many of his accusations are true. Not all Templars are good people, and many abuse their power. Some, a very precious few, agree that mages are just as much people as anyone else, and these Templars do try to help where they can. But there are far too many Templars who simply see mages as lesser.”

“They should be watched for such abuses.” He glared at the horizon. The light of the setting sun lit his eyes aflame, and I had to look away. “Did Anders tell you the extent of what he endured, of what others he’d spoken to had endured?”

“No,” I murmured, “but I… am aware. Those who live in the Circle of Magi often suffer things that no person should be put through.”

I felt his burning gaze turn to me then. “And what do you think, then? What do you think should happen to the Templars?”

Everything about Justice demanded that I tell him the truth; I was unwilling, perhaps from his influence, to lie to him. “I think Templars are nothing more than an excuse. People fear magic, and, more than that, they fear demons, so they hide behind armored guards and pretend their protectors can do no wrong.

“The Templar Order is a farce, Justice, and the things they do to mages only scratches the surface.” I sighed, pressing the heel of a hand against my eye. “So much of the shemlen world is far more corrupt than I could ever have imagined. I sometimes wonder if it is because they’re able to grow large settlements, or if it is simply in their nature.”

“Perhaps it is both,” he answered. “Thank you. Not many have been willing to answer that question, and fewer still with patience or comprehension.”

I peeked at him with a small smile. “I’m always happy to help. However I can.”

“So it would seem.”

 

In the afternoons, Anders and I would often work together. The soldiers and other Wardens had a tendency towards recklessness, and maybe it was because they knew that at least one capable healer was around, so there were often wounds or bruises for us to take care of during or after training sessions. Castor tried to discourage it, but his words didn’t seem to sink in.

Mostly, Anders didn’t seem to mind. It gave him time to flirt with everyone and everything, which he greatly enjoyed, even if he didn’t seem to mean half of what passed his lips. I didn’t particularly care, either, as Anders also used the injuries to tutor me in healing. I’d never be as good as he was, but I didn’t mind; he’d never be a shapeshifter, either. We each had our own strengths.

He seemed surprised at my knowledge of anatomy. Not that I knew a great amount, but I doubtlessly knew more than most Fereldans. It didn’t seem like the sort of thing they’d be taught very often, even in the Circles, if you weren’t a surgeon or butcher. Regardless, Anders still knew more than I did, and I learned a great deal from him—not so much with technical names, as he didn’t know many of those, either, but he knew where major veins were and how muscles worked, and I think that was probably more important.

“Wynne used to have us practice on animals,” he said as I healed a large bruise that Brannen had received. “Not that animals have the same body shape as people, but Templars weren’t supposed to be our subjects, and we weren’t supposed to let ourselves get hurt on purpose, either.”

“So she had you hurt animals instead?” Brannen asked, frowning. I silently agreed with him. It didn’t seem like an ideal solution.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Anders wince. “Not… really. I mean, sometimes people would, but mostly we would find injured animals without actually having to, you know, hurt them ourselves.”

Brannen snorted. I smiled and patted his arm, finished, and he left the little room that had been turned into a makeshift apothecary-and-infirmary. I began to clean up, and glanced to Anders. “At least you’d learn about things like the organs, right? Even if they’re smaller, an animal’s heart works like a person’s would.”

Anders chuckled. “Well, I like to think they do! You love me, don’t you, Ser Pounce-a-Lot?” The cat, nestled happily in a basket near the fireplace, chirruped at his name, bringing a large grin to Anders’ face. “Yes, he agrees they must.”

Littlefoot huffed, and Anders just rolled his eyes. I patted Littlefoot’s head consolingly. “Don’t worry, pup, I still love you.” He panted happily and licked my hand.

Anders wrinkled his nose. “How do you stand that?” he asked, waving his hand at mine, where Littlefoot had licked me.

I tilted my head to the side and shrugged. “I’m used to it, I guess?” Narrowing my eyes, I considered him. “Why? Are you afraid of a little dog slobber?”

He stuck out his tongue and shivered. “Ugh, no, it’s just gross.”

“Right, of course,” I said, nodding. “I completely understand.” Then I smiled and patted his arm with my slobber-hand.

Anders squawked and wiggled away. “Ewww! Gahh, gross, Vee!”

I laughed and followed him with my hand, and he kept inching away. “What? It’s just a little spit, Anders! Surely someone who often gets covered in darkspawn blood wouldn’t have an issue with mabari slobber?”

“I don’t have a choice about the darkspawn blood,” he protested. “And it’s not like I enjoy that!” Something in his expression changed, a thought obviously occurring to him, and he sighed at me, a bit too carefully casual. “Besides, if I’m going to be covered in a bodily fluid, there’s others that are much more fun, wouldn’t you agree?”

As he turned and smirked victoriously at me, I felt my whole face burn bright red. I coughed, looking away in an attempt at nonchalance, though even I knew it failed spectacularly. “I-I-I have no idea what you mean.”

Anders laughed loudly. It reminded me of a trumpet, unapologetically boisterous and bright, the sort of laugh that could be heard even across a noisy and crowded room, and it was simply delightful. I had to fight the urge not to smile along with him—I was supposed to be upset with him, dammit! “I’d say I’m sorry,” he said, still giggling, “but I don’t actually enjoy lying, and I’m really not sorry at all.”

I pouted at him, but it quickly dissolved into a smile. I kicked in his direction. My foot only hit air, though; at least he understood my intent. “Samahlan.”

He tilted his head at me. “What’s that mean?”

“Wh-oh,” I said, blinking. I hadn’t realized I’d said something in Elvish. “Uh, it means joker, basically. Or close enough, at any rate.”

He hummed and nodded, staring at me strangely. “Sometimes I forget that you’re really Dalish. I mean, I usually remember, because the, uh, what’d you call them? The face tattoos?”

“Vallaslin,” I answered, leaning forward a bit as he spoke. Littlefoot laid his head on my lap, and I began to pet it idly.

“Yes, that, the vallaslin,” Anders continued (the word didn’t quite fit in his mouth, coming out slightly warped like plastic left in the summer sun), “makes it kind of obvious, but…” He shrugged. “I just forget, sometimes. You’re different from Velanna in that way. Everything she says or does just screams Dalish.”

I scrunched up my face. “Not the angry-vengeful part, surely?”

“Well…” He trailed off, and I huffed at him. “Okay, maybe not. Though it does rather match the stories I used to hear about ‘savage Dalish’ and whatnot.” He coughed. “I mean, not that I believed the stories, or anything.”

“Of course not. That’d be like me believing that all shemlen hate elves, don’t you think?” I raised an eyebrow at him, but he frowned.

“Isn’t—I’ve heard you and Velanna use that word. It’s not a slur, is it? I mean, the elves in the cities and the ones in the tower always said it in a very mean way, but the way you and Velanna say it…” Anders sighed, tossing his hands up. “I don’t know.”

I was briefly taken aback at the notion. “Shemlen?” I asked, though I didn’t need the clarification, and Anders nodded. Pursing my lips, I looked down at Littlefoot, as if he’d have all the answers. “It—it shouldn’t be a slur,” I said, slowly. “It’s the Elvish word for human, like durgen’len is the word for dwarf.”

He hummed. “Alright, I think I understand, then.”

“Good.”

“But,” he said, and the mischievous tone in his voice made my eyes widen, “now that we’ve had that little tangent, I think it’s time we get back to the real topic.” Something told me I wasn’t—or shouldn’t be—eager for whatever conversation he had planned. (I was right.) He grinned wickedly. “Tell me about Howe.”

I clamped my mouth shut and shook my head viciously, refusing to even say no to his request. Littlefoot, the traitor, snorted, apparently agreeing that I should speak with Anders.

“Come on, Vee, just tell me a little,” Anders wheedled, scooching to the edge of his chair and leaning forward into my personal space bubble. “I have to know. He’s so—so—I don’t know, so Nathaniel all the time. You simply have to give me the dirty details.”

I mimed zipping my lips shut. Zippers didn’t exist in Thedas (or at least, not that I was aware of), but the action was understandable even so. And Anders was relentless; he simply scooted closer, putting both his hands on my shoulders and leveling his face right in mine. “Please? I’d like to be your friend, and good friends listen. Which means you need to give me something to listen to!”

His logic was flawed, but I knew telling him as much would do precisely nothing for my present predicament, so I caved. Letting out a loud breath, I exclaimed, “Fine! Fine, I’ll—I’ll tell you something. But you have to be on your best behavior, Anders! Don’t make me remind you that you asked for this nonsense.”

If my glare was anywhere near effective, I’ll never know, because Anders is a master of deflection. He just grinned at me, ever a cheeky bastard, and slid back to give me breathing room so that I could tell my tale. Or something like that, at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _samahlan_ \- a word i made from 'samahl' (laugh/laughter) and '-an' (place), given that -an is also often, from what i can tell, used to make a noun refer to a person (ie: vhenan). lit. would mean 'laugher,' but intended translation is 'joker/jokester.'
> 
> [edelweiss](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8bL2BCiFkTk)


	10. beginning of the end

The day that Anya and Faren returned to us, coming to Vigil’s Keep to take their place among the Grey Wardens, we greeted them with joy. Littlefoot knocked Faren right over, pushing the dwarf to the ground with palpable delight and excited kisses. I laughed at the sight, but whatever happiness I felt at their return was short-lived.

Only a day later, three new recruits arrived: Templars, sent from the Circle of Magi and Kinloch Hold, doubtlessly due to the high number of mages the Keep was known to have. (There had been already one apostate who’d tried to join, but he died in the Joining.) The blood in my veins seemed both to rush and to stop when I heard the news. That is what I had been waiting for, what I had begun to dread.

Nathaniel, sweet Nathaniel, noticed the change in me right away. Even without my saying as much, he seemed to connect the dots, at least in part. He knew the Templars (whose Joining Castor was deliberately postponing as long as he could) were the reason for my distress, though he did not know precisely why. He didn’t ask, either, but he made a point to stand between me and them at every opportunity.

The Templars, of course, weren’t oblivious to this. They knew I was a mage; we made no secrets of who had magic and who didn’t. They knew also of my relationship with Nathaniel, as it was rather obvious to anyone (or so Neria told me one day). But they kept their distance—if it was out of respect to Nathaniel or simply because they were not yet Wardens, I didn’t care.

Anders complained every time he saw them and sometimes when he didn’t. Neria was similarly unsettled, but she took to it with far more grace than Anders did. That didn’t mean she welcomed the Templars with open arms, though.

“I don’t know what Knight-Commander Greagoir was thinking,” she said to me one evening. We were in our room, preparing for bed.

I didn’t know what had prompted the comment, but I knew what she was referring to. “I’m not sure it was his idea. He seemed like a mostly reasonable man.”

Neria huffed. “You didn’t see him when the Circle was actually normal. But you’re right. This isn’t the kind of thing he would just do, especially not after what happened during the Blight.” I glanced over my shoulder at her as I tugged down my nightclothes, and saw she was biting her lip. “Maybe it was that Templar who’d come for Anders.”

I remembered her, vaguely. Not her name or precisely what she looked like, but I could remember how angry she’d been when Alistair had allowed Castor to conscript Anders. Castor had killed her in Amaranthine, though—or so I thought. “Didn’t—isn’t she dead?”

“Oh yeah,” Neria said and sighed. “Well, there goes that. Though that probably didn’t help our case with the Knight-Commander.” I sat on my bed, and she paced the floor, arms crossed. “I don’t like it, though. If they genuinely want to be Wardens, that’s fine, but it just feels too much like…”

“Like they’re here to watch us?” I asked, quietly. She nodded. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that she was right, not in full. She had enough on her plate as it was, and—and if my memory could be trusted, the Templars wouldn’t be much of an issue for long. “I agree.”

She spared me a small smile. “At least I know I’m not the only one thinking that.” Her eyes went to the door and lingered there, brows furrowed. “We’ll just have to be careful for a while. Not that you’re prone to doing stupid stuff, of course.”

“No, I understand.” None of us could take chances while the Templars were still so new, and especially not before their Joining. There was no telling what they’d do. We couldn’t risk something untoward happening—especially since none of the Grey Warden mages were doing anything that was actually against the law.

“I’ll talk to Velanna about it in the morning,” Neria announced. “She seems to know less about living in cities than you do.”

I nodded, and we bid each other good night. I didn’t sleep well.

 

“You’ve been tense lately,” Nathaniel said as we walked the keep’s walls. Officially, we were on guard duty. Not that it stopped us from having a conversation or staying close to one another, of course. If Castor cared about that, he wouldn’t let us take the duty together—and he wouldn’t do the same with Darrien.

I paused as we came to a corner, leaning against the wall and looking out over the lands beyond the fortress. A few lonely houses sat nearby, but mostly it was just trees and some farmland. “The Circle sent Templars to watch us,” I replied. “I never lived among them, but I have heard… stories. From Anders and from others.”

He stepped to my side and wrapped an arm around me. “Ser Rolan and his friends did choose a convenient time to appear. If we weren’t so desperate for recruits, I don’t think Neria would have stood for someone like him in our order.”

“She still doesn’t like it,” I said, leaning into him. “But she can’t do anything about it. Neither can Castor. Officially, we’re supposed to accept anyone who is willing to undergo the Joining. Something about the First Warden and a code or some rot.” I didn’t want to admit I hadn’t paid attention when I’d received lessons with Castor and Neria on the regulations and history of the Grey Wardens.

Nathaniel just hummed. “I bet we could send them to another outpost. When we’ve built up our number enough. Unless they actually are nicer than they’ve been so far.”

I turned and smiled at him for the thought. “We can dream, I suppose.” I hoped my face didn’t show the sadness creeping through my veins. I wouldn’t be here long enough to even try to get Castor to do such a thing. I would have to leave when Anders did.

If he noticed my melancholy, he said nothing. He pressed a kiss to my forehead instead. We hadn’t talked about the fact that I would leave. Not since we kissed the first time. I think we were both avoiding it—as though if we never spoke about it, maybe it wouldn’t happen at all. Maybe I could stay here, with him. Maybe I could.

I raised one hand up to caress his face, brushing my thumb over his cheekbone. The last sunlight reached out to us, washing his features in a soft orange color. I hated orange, but it suited him. It made him glow. Entranced, I leaned in slowly and pressed my lips against his. I soaked in the moment, letting his orange-glow face find a permanent place in my memory, so that I would never forget.

“Now, correct me if I’m wrong,” said a voice behind us, and I nearly jumped out of my skin, “but that doesn’t look much like patrolling to me.”

Having separated immediately, Nathaniel and I both turned to face the speaker. When I saw who it was, I had to stop myself from flinching back.

One of the Templars stood there, positively leering at us. It wasn’t Rolan; it was the slimy one, who even Rolan seemed to dislike. He was tall and broad-shouldered, which might have been attractive if not for the condescending way he spoke to most people and the predatory way he looked at any elf in range. I didn’t understand why Castor let him stay. Maybe he was hoping this disgusting man would die in the Joining. (I couldn’t help but hope so, too.)

“Fuck off,” Nathaniel said, surprising me. I blinked up at him, but he just kept glaring at the intruder. Ser Slimy smiled slickly.

“Do we get to choose our own when we join, hm?” he asked. He made a show of looking me over, leaving me feeling dirty wherever his eyes lingered. Still, even nervous as I was, I refused to hide and admit defeat. I schooled my expression as best I could and kept my head high. I avoided looking directly at him.

Nathaniel stepped slightly in front of me, and while part of me wanted to insist I could hold my own, most of me was simply glad that there was at least one part of me Slimy could no longer fondle with his gaze.

Before Nathaniel could say anything, though, Ser Rolan appeared, climbing the stairs up and sighing at Slimy. “Don’t be an arse, Wilson,” he said. “You’re not doing us any favors.”

Slimy— _Wilson_ —shrugged. “So? ‘S not like I’ve not got a point, you know. Even the Warden-Commander’s got himself a pretty little thing.”

“Don’t say that around Darrien,” I warned, the words tumbling out before I realized I was speaking. Wilson made an exaggeratedly surprised face, and I winced in disgust. “Or do.” I wouldn’t mind seeing Darrien take such an arrogant fucker down.

“They’re not _things_ ,” Nathaniel insisted. “They’re as much people as you or I—except, no, I’m not sure _you_ count as a person.”

Wilson sneered, getting ready to retort, but Rolan intervened again. “Shut _up_ , Wilson.” He grabbed the offensive Templar by the arm and began to drag him away, glancing back at us. “Sorry about this.”

Nathaniel kept glaring. “If he keeps that up, he won’t have a tongue—or other parts—for much longer.”

Wilson laughed as he was led away, obviously not taking the threat to heart. I wondered why the Templars would send him here, and thought that maybe—just maybe—they also were hoping he’d die here. They might not know about the Joining or its casualty rate, but the death rate of Wardens as a general rule was certainly known.

I vowed silently to not go anywhere in the keep on my own until Wilson was dead or gone.

Preferably the former.

 

Of course, even Castor could only delay the Templars’ Joining for so long. By the end of two weeks, they were getting restless, and four other recruits had shown up. Unless we started implementing a standard of waiting for ten recruits or more, which was unlikely to ever happen, there was no point in delaying further.

After Castor announced that everyone should begin preparations for the Joining, Wilson cornered me in the library. Littlefoot was in the yard, and I was alone staring down the Templar. I didn’t know why he’d come here; ever since arriving, all the Templars had avoided the library as though it was made of demons. Or maybe worse. Wilson spread his lips in a crudely-implemented smile, and I suppressed a shudder.

“Ser Wilson,” I said, trying very hard to keep my voice calm. I clasped my hands behind my back so that he could not see them shake.

“Vir’era!” he returned, somehow far too delighted. “Just who I was hoping to see!” He stepped closer, becoming a barrier of flesh between myself and the main doors.

Were he anyone else, I may have been comfortable hearing those words. However, coming from his lips, with his overconfident voice? My stomach shrunk in on itself as I wondered what, exactly, it was that he wanted from me. I didn’t bother trying to smile, and took a step back as his breath grazed my skin (it smelled clean, at least; he’d used some sort of mouthwash). “How may I help you?”

“Now, now, there’s no need to be so _nervous_!” he exclaimed. He took another step forward, and I continued to shuffle back. It was like a small war, and so far, he was more successful than I. (I doubted I could truly win with my voice shaking and hands so unstable, but surely I could at least make a retreat. Right?)

“How may I help you?” I repeated.

He sighed dramatically, but smiled. “At least you know your manners, eh?” He clapped a hand against my shoulder, a bit too rough to be friendly. “Not at all like that feisty one Commander Cousland keeps around.” His face brightened, as though he’d just thought of something, and he nodded to himself. “Which, speaking of all that, what do you say you and I—”

Horrified, I interrupted him. “No!”

He frowned at me. “Now, now, surely you don’t mean that, do you, darling? That disgrace, Howe, can’t match up to me, and even you must know it. ‘Course, I suppose you knife-ears are all the same, so I could just talk to the other feisty one with the tattoos.”

I flinched at the idea. “You won’t,” I demanded, but my voice shook.

“Jealous, love?” He leaned in. Just a bit closer…

I took a deep breath to steel my courage. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity (or so I hoped; I really didn’t want to repeat this experience). I had only one chance to do this right. “Don’t,” I warned.

He laughed and leaned in even closer, flagrantly disobeying my wishes. He had well over a foot on me in height, and likely more than a hundred pounds in weight, but I had been in more fights than he had, and I had been in ones far more difficult. I could do this, I told myself.

Soon, he was close enough that I could see my own reflection in his eyes, and I looked every bit as nervous as I felt. So much for pretending to be calm. He reached up to my face, but I didn’t let his hand get very far. Before he touched my skin, I pulled my head back ever so slightly—and rammed it right into his nose. It hurt like hell.

He shouted, grabbing at his nose with both hands, and glaring at me above them. He might bleed for a while, but he’d recover other faculties quickly. I kneed him in—well, I’m not entirely certain where I actually hit, but I aimed for his stomach. I didn’t bother being more exact, not with how angry he already was and how much my head hurt from slamming it into his.

As Wilson doubled over, gasping for breath or in pain, I transformed into a cat and bolted the fuck out of that room like the hounds of hell were on my heels.

 

Though I hadn’t made it a habit to attend the previous Joinings, I decided to observe this one. I didn’t want to wait and see if I would be subjected to Wilson’s presence for the rest of my time at Vigil’s Keep. I wanted to know from the start.

A frighteningly cruel part of me wanted to watch him die.

Castor stood at the dais in the room we’d converted specifically for the Joining ritual and held the Joining chalice in his hands with a somber face. His gaze was intense as it took in the seven recruits. To their credit, most seemed to accept what was about to happen. The Templars seemed less certain, looking at the mixture in the chalice with visible distrust, but none spoke against us.

“Join us, brothers and sisters,” Castor intoned. His voice was loud in the otherwise-silent room, and it filled the space from wall to wall, discouraging any from leaving. “Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten, and that one day, we shall join you.”

I heard someone’s breath hitch. That couldn’t be a good sign. I didn’t say as much, though. They’d made it this far. They’d have to drink.

“Is that blood?” Wilson whispered. Castor’s eyes focused on him. “Is this blood magic?”

“Ser Wilson,” Castor said, ignoring the questions. “Drink from the Joining chalice and join us.”

I watched Wilson’s face. It went pale—paler than Ser Jory’s had been, so very long ago—but he did not refuse. He reached out his hands to accept the cup. Not a single part of him was shaking, I noticed. I wondered if Templars were allowed to shake.

Wilson drank from the cup and handed it back to Castor. No one breathed as we watched him, eyes rolling back until all that we could see was white. The sight was ghastly. I didn’t know how Castor could stand to watch it over and over—and when Wilson choked, reaching for his own neck before falling, I knew he had not survived.

Seneschal Varel leaned down and checked for a pulse, but from the shake of his head, he found nothing. Castor stared at the body. “I am sorry, Ser Wilson. We will join you someday.”

No one was eager to drink after that, but they all understood they had no choice. The fact that Darrien and Justice both stood at the exit and watched to ensure no one left made sure of that. Two others died in the same manner as Wilson—one nobleman’s youngest son and a beggar-thief who’d said we were his last resort. But Rolan had made it through, as had the third Templar.

I helped Castor to pour the remnants of the Joining mixture into pendants for the new Grey Wardens. “We shall not forget Ser Wilson,” he said as we handed out the four pendants, “nor Jacob, nor Henry. They are Grey Wardens as much as any of us. Remember them.”

Solemnity wrapped around each Warden’s neck with their Warden’s Promise, and I led them away to their new quarters with the rest of the Wardens.

The cruel part of me rejoiced in Wilson’s death.

 

A week later, there were rumors of blood mages in the bannorn that Castor was expected to deal with. He sent me out in charge of the mission, asking that we try to reason with the mages if we could, but also sent Rolan along to be sure that we wouldn’t have trouble if the mages refused.

“You’re certain you want us to talk with these maleficarum first, Commander?” Rolan asked, a fierce frown on his face.

Castor rolled his eyes. “Yes, Rolan. We’re not Templars, and Grey Wardens take recruits from wherever we can find them, I’ll have you remember. Besides, we don’t know for certain that they really are blood mages.”

“But the reports—”

“The reports,” Castor said, “were made by frightened people who have not seen many mages.” He stared Rolan down. “If we can avoid bloodshed, we will. If they are maleficarum, and they stand down, we will take them to the Circle to deal with. Otherwise, it is not our concern, Rolan. Do not forget that you are a Grey Warden now, not a Templar. Your duty is to us.”

Rolan looked like he’d swallowed something sour, but he nodded and backed down. “Yes, ser.”

Castor watched him a few moments longer. “Good.” He then looked to me. “Vir’era, I leave the final decision in your hands. If they cannot be reasoned with and will not surrender, I will stand by whatever you choose to do.”

“Understood, Commander.” I smiled at him, but inside I hoped Rolan would not fuck this up. It wasn’t a confident hope. He was still very much a Templar, Warden vows or no.

And I was right to doubt Rolan.

We had no issues finding the mages, but even from the outset I could see they were using blood magic. I told my party—Rolan, Nathaniel, and Justice—because I did not want them caught unawares. This was the wrong thing to do. Rolan took that statement to mean ‘attack on sight,’ and he called for the mages to surrender without asking for a peaceful talk, without waiting for my orders.

“Rolan, stop!” I called out, desperate.

But it was too late.

Panicked, the blood mages attacked us. If they knew Rolan was a Templar, I couldn’t say for certain. He had borrowed one of Justice’s uniforms, being about the same build as Kristoff’s body. I barely had time to put shields up before an onslaught of magical power hit us.

And it was an onslaught. The blood mages wasted no time in building up to something; it seemed they hoped that to present some overwhelming force would be a better option. As if we could be scared off. I cursed Rolan up and down. _Dread Wolf take you!_

Repulsion glyphs sent Rolan, Justice, and Littlefoot flying as soon as they got too close. I watched, wide-eyed at the power it would take to actually put that much force into the glyphs. Nathaniel’s arrows weren’t doing much good, either; they got caught in shields and slowed until they barely tapped their targets before clattering down to the ground.

I tried to see if there were any holes in their defenses, but I’d never been good at that sort of strategy, and it was impossible to see where their magic was weakest. Maybe Justice knew, but when I turned to ask him, he was skirting around the mages. Flanking them would help, I hoped.

Trying to distract them from the warrior-spirit, I concentrated and cast a blizzard over them. They had only three people, and they stood close together. It shouldn’t be a problem to encompass them in whirling snow to at least buy Justice time to sneak up.

Except, of course, these were blood mages, and they didn’t play by the same rules as I had grown accustomed to. As soon as they were out of sight, they summoned shades and rage demons. We went from having the numbers-advantage to being outmatched nearly three-to-one. These mages had nothing left to lose, I suppose. Of course they’d give their all.

Arrows don’t work on rage demons, and swords mostly irritate them. Shades are easier. Justice vanished two of those simultaneously, with one large swing of his sword. Rolan sneered at a rage demon, but gave ground, backing up towards me. I thought about simply spelling ice at the demon without regard for Rolan, but that likely wouldn’t win me any points with him.

“Rolan, duck,” I ordered. To my surprise, he listened to _that_ command, and I cast first Winter’s Grasp at the demon (not freezing it, but sizzling over its molten skin) and then several quick-fire bursts of pure ice magic from Maleficent. One, by either luck or fate, rammed solidly into and through the part that passed for a head, dissipating the creature in a blaze of heat and wind that smelled of charred bone.

Rolan rolled away, not even glancing to me in thanks, but I didn’t have time to be angry. The other two rage demons, having noticed the destruction of the first, locked onto me. I breathed in the burning remnants of the first, and breathed out ice.

It was easier to destroy the second two; with no one between myself and them, I didn’t have to worry about being precise in my aiming. So long as the ice did hit the rage demons, it didn’t matter. I could concentrate entirely on them, trusting my companions to deal with the shades.

But I couldn’t keep up the blizzard and fight the rage demons. Already, I could feel icy tendrils snaking their way up my arms. Reluctantly, I dispersed the blizzard. I had to have priorities, and right now? My priority was not dying at the hands of a goddamn rage demon, of all things.

My next Winter’s Grasp managed to catch and end both of the rage demons, and I was free to turn my attentions to the shades and the blood mages themselves.

It was a good thing, too, as had I been a few moments later, I likely would have been hit by the spell that one of the mages had sent my way. As it was, I had enough time to duck down into cat form and race to the other side of the field. The grass was too tall for them to track my movements at that size, and I was thankful for it.

Plus, I got an idea. Like Justice had started earlier, I began to flank the mages. But I was small, shorter than the grass, and they didn’t see me the way they’d seen him. They didn’t raise more demons, either. I could smell the sweat and blood. There was a lot of blood; they couldn’t have much left to give before they’d die.

The others were still busy with the last of the shades—made more difficult now that the mages could send spells out, too. I crept around as quickly as I dared.

They still didn’t see me. Littlefoot seemed to know; I saw him glance in my direction and sniff a couple times, but he didn’t stop for long. Good. I ran full-tilt towards them, with the speed only cats can manage, and prepared to do whatever it took to take them down, be it with death or surrender.

Except Rolan didn’t know. No one else saw me. It was my mistake, and I did pay for it.

As I drew near, the last of the shades was killed, and the three men turned to the blood mages. Rolan held up a hand. A foolish part of me thought perhaps he was going to ask for peace, now, the way we were supposed to in the first place, but this was not so.

Instead, he Cleansed the area.

Rolan, I had known, was a rather powerful Templar. Not their most powerful, or they would never have sent him to the Grey Wardens, but certainly a force to be reckoned with. I had seen Templar abilities before, when traveling with Alistair. He’d occasionally Cleansed an area, but I had never, not even on accident, been one of those affected by such a thing.

So, when Rolan Cleansed the area around the three blood mages, with me right there, I was entirely unprepared for the reality of what a Cleanse was. It didn’t help, I don’t think, that I wasn’t even in my natural form. The Cleanse forced me— _painfully_ —back into the shape of an elf, and I couldn’t adjust my movements quick enough for it to make sense to my disoriented body. I ate blood-drenched dirt.

I must have blacked out for a hot second, because the next that I was aware, Nathaniel was shouting my name and boots were headed towards me. The blood mages groaned, and one weakly attempted to—I couldn’t see just what. It was beyond my vision, and I didn’t yet have the wherewithal to pull my head up.

Dimly, I heard Justice’s voice mingling with Rolan’s. It sounded chastising, and I wanted to snort. I only got more dirt in my mouth for the effort.

Littlefoot nosed at my fingers, wet and slimy, and I twitched my hand away. Everything felt wrong. I couldn’t describe precisely how, but the best analogy would be that it felt like… Like somehow, someone had pulled out my brain, played with it, and sloppily dropped it back in upside-down and backwards. Wrong. Disconnected.

Someone helped me roll over so that I wasn’t face-down in the dirt anymore, and I blinked up at the sky. A plaintive noise left my throat without my permission, and I coughed as dirt tried to fall into my throat.

“No, don’t—don’t do that,” said Nathaniel’s voice. I rolled my eyes to the sound. He was already next to me. I coughed again, and this time I managed to spit out some of the dirt. He made a disgusted face, but as soon as he’d wiped it from my chin and cheek, he simply looked worried again. “Vir’era?”

I blinked slowly at him, still feeling out-of-sorts with my body, and managed a long groan. One hand groped blindly for—I don’t know what, honestly, but as soon as Nathaniel helped me to sit up straight, I became slightly more aware.

At least, down became obvious again. Down was the direction my body was trying to pull towards, which made up obvious, too. I instinctively began to spit out the dirt that lingered in my mouth, but I couldn’t do much for the taste of blood. Not until I could eat something else to replace it. (I couldn’t decide if dirt and blood was better or worse than darkspawn blood, and then realized that it didn’t fucking matter, because both were terrible, and what the hell was my life that I was now familiar with both?)

Littlefoot licked my cheek, leaving long lines of loving slobber that would have me feeling sticky later. I reached up a hand to reassure him, managing somehow to pet him without causing anyone injury. “I’m okay,” I said. Or, at least, I tried to. It came out garbled and mumbled, but the thought seemed to get across.

Nathaniel rolled his eyes at me. “No, you’re not. You just—you just landed face-first on the ground, Vir’era. You’re bleeding and you might have a concussion.”

I blinked at him. My face hadn’t hurt until he said that, as though I’d been numb to pain I wasn’t aware I should have, but once he told me I was bleeding, I could feel it. My nose ached (might be broken), and the left side of my face felt—well, precisely how it should have, all things considered: it felt like I’d used it to break my fall. This was not the cheek Littlefoot had licked; my right cheek felt fine, if slobbery.

As I frowned and catalogued what felt hurt, Justice and Rolan finished off the blood mages. I tried not to notice. Not to care. It felt wrong, though; we shouldn’t have needed to kill them. (The irony that I felt such despair over killing three maleficar after all I’d seen and done during the Blight did not escape me.)

Rolan kneeled nearby, apparently concerned with my reaction to the Cleanse. “I’ve never seen anyone quite… this affected,” he said, brows furrowed as he examined me.

My shoulders hunched slightly, and I became overly conscious of his gaze. It wasn’t in a good way, like I sometimes felt about Nathaniel’s. It felt invasively clinical. Like he didn’t care that I was a person, not right then, because I’d done something unexpected.

“I was a cat,” I said. Maybe that was why. Rolan didn’t understand for a moment, just giving me an incredulous look, before apparently remembering that I could shapeshift. “The Cleanse made me elvhen again.”

“Huh.” He continued staring at me. I wasn’t entirely sure, if I allowed myself to be honest, that it was just the unexpected and forced change back into my normal body that had caused such an untoward reaction, but I didn’t want to experiment and find out.

I was perfectly fine not knowing, thanks.


	11. or end of the beginning?

I lost track of the days easily as they passed, trying desperately not to think about the fact that their passing brought me closer to leaving Nathaniel. If he caught on, he said nothing of it. I didn’t believe for a second that he had forgotten the promise he’d made when he first kissed me. He knew perfectly well that our time was limited, but he was good at making me forget.

Sometimes I overheard Anders and Justice talking when they thought no one was nearby. I heard Anders describing the horror of being torn from his family, heard Justice condemn all Templars as if it could be so easily black-and-white. Perhaps it was, for him.

I nearly started crying when I heard them talk about whether it would be different for the spirit to have a willing host.

 

Of course, the day came when I couldn’t pretend any longer. When the other shoe dropped. Whatever phrase I used, it didn’t change the facts: Anders went on yet another mission with Rolan and Justice (this time also with one of the other new Wardens and a recruit). I had stopped worrying after the third if they’d all make it back. I should not have been so confident. It was already 9:31 Dragon, after all.

They were supposed to be back three days after they’d left, having gone to check on some parts of the Deep Roads to the north. They didn’t. On the fourth day, a messenger came to the Keep to tell Castor that a group of Grey Wardens and Templars had been found slaughtered by an unknown force. Most were burned too badly to identify by anything but their armor.

My heart stopped in my chest when I heard the words. I wasn’t alone; everyone had gone silent.

“Were there any survivors?” Neria demanded, leaning forward. She was thinking of Anders and Justice. Maybe the others, too, but Anders and Justice were her friends. She’d want them to be alive, at least. I shouldn’t tell her.

“No, ser,” the messenger said, voice barely more than a whisper in the room, yet easily heard by all. “They were all dead.”

Without warning, Castor slammed his fist against a pillar, resulting in a loud bang. “Dammit!” he shouted. “Damn it all!”

I stayed frozen in place until the messenger was eventually dismissed by Seneschal Varel. Castor stormed away, looking ready to tear apart an entire army, and, against my better judgement, I followed him.

He noticed, and we walked to his office. I doubt that’s where he’d planned on going, but it’s where he led me. I faced the door as I closed it after entering, and tried to breathe calmly. It was hard with Castor huffing and pacing behind me. His glower settled on my shoulders like a boulder.

“Did you know?” he asked me when I did not speak.

I turned. I wanted to say no, even if just to reassure him, but my face answered for me. He cursed again. “What happened?” he demanded. “Tell me, Vir’era! What the fuck happened out there?”

My breath was shaky, but my voice wasn’t. “Justice,” I said. He snorted, and I shook my head. “Not—like that—it was… It was _Justice_ ,” I tried again, emphasizing the name. “He and Anders—th-they—they merged, Castor.”

He turned away from me, staring out the window behind his desk. His hair, hanging loose over his back, bled over his clothing like a wound. I looked at the ground, at the plush rug Rendon Howe had no doubt paid good money for, unable to watch Castor even from behind.

“And the Templars?”

I almost didn’t hear the question for the blood pumping through my veins like waves. “Rolan,” I answered.

“Anders became an abomination,” Castor murmured, and I wasn’t sure if I was meant to hear, “and Rolan forgot he was a Warden, not a Templar.”

I nodded, even though I knew he couldn’t see it. I announced, “I have to leave.”

“Okay.”

I chanced a look up, but Castor was still facing the window. “No, I mean—I need to leave Amaranthine.”

Castor peered over his shoulder at me. “Why?”

Swallowing back my nerves, I lifted one arm as if that would explain things any better. “I—I’m needed elsewhere.” I let my arm drop.

He turned halfway back towards me, head tilted. “This is about what you know, isn’t it?” he asked, quietly. When I only nodded in response, he heaved a great sigh. “Where?”

“Kirkwall.” I didn’t dare hope he’d help. In all likelihood, he couldn’t.

“Is that where Anders—Justice—whatever they are now, is that where they went?”

A small smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. I should have remembered not to underestimate Castor. He trusted me, certainly. Maybe too easily. But he wasn’t stupid, and if I made it all so easy to figure out, then of course he’d connect the dots without even being prompted to do so. “Yes.”

“I’ll book you passage,” he said, and his voice allowed for no argument. “I can’t send anyone with you. I’ve already lost too many Wardens today. We cannot afford to let any more go.”

He meant Nathaniel. “I know.”

“If Anders and Justice are really there,” he started, then shook his head. “No, never mind. Kirkwall’s not a good place for mages, though. I’ll write a letter for whoever’s the Knight-Commander now—”

“Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard.”

“Right. I’ll write Knight-Commander Meredith.” His eyes met mine again. “I don’t know why you need to go there. I don’t want to know. Officially, your reason will be retrieving the maps I gave Anders, and Anders, too, if you can manage it. Do you understand, Vir’era?”

He was speaking as my commander, now, not as my friend, and I gave a short nod. “I understand.”

“Good. Deliver the letter and present yourself to both the Knight-Commander and the—what do they have, a Prince? No, that’s Starkhaven, Kirkwall’s a Viscount, isn’t it?—present yourself to them when you arrive in the city. You’re still a Grey Warden, after all. You’re there on business.”

 

I told Neria next. And then Anya and Faren. Oghren. Sigrun and Velanna. By the time I’d made my rounds, telling almost everyone, Castor had found a ship that would leave from Amaranthine the next day. Even if I hadn’t paid for passage ahead of time, the captain could hardly refuse a request from a Commander of the Grey.

Nathaniel was the last to know, and yet also the first. When I found him in a back room no one else used, the one we’d been appropriating to be alone together, I knew he’d gone to wait there. To wait for me to tell him what he’d known the second I followed Castor out of the main hall: I was leaving.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, instead. He looked at me so sadly, but he didn’t argue. “I’m leaving.”

“You did warn me, I guess,” he said, reaching out to brush a thumb over my cheekbone. I leaned into the touch, memorizing it, savoring it. His eyebrows drew together. “Can’t I go with you?”

I shook my head. “There’s—we don’t have enough Grey Wardens yet.” A half-truth. I hadn’t been planning to drag Nathaniel away with me, anyways. His place was here. “This is-is your home, Nathaniel. And your sister’s here. You can’t leave her.”

“I did once before,” he argued, but even he knew he couldn’t do it again, and the words fell flat, an empty offer.

It was my turn to hold his face, and I did so with both hands, hoping that he might understand. “You belong at Vigil’s Keep.”

He pulled me suddenly into a hug, arms around my back and face against the top of my head. I held tight, my own hands going around him to tug him as close as I could, and I breathed in his scent. He smelled mostly like the oils used to clean the Grey Warden armors. “I’m sorry,” I repeated.

“When do you leave?” he asked. His breath was warm against my ear.

“Tomorrow.” He squeezed me tight at the admission. Maybe he’d hoped for more time. I had.

“Then we’ll have to make the most of tonight.”

Our lips met, and so did our bodies.

 

After dinner, Oghren said that, since I was “leavin’ an’ all that, you oughta sing just one las’ song for us, alright?”

I laughed, but he was right, in some ways. I wouldn’t be able to sing for them again. Not all of them, all at once, the way I could now. I looked around the table, at all the friends and companions I’d gained, and my heart ached.

“Of course, Oghren,” I said, forcing back tears with a smile. “Anything for my favorite drunk dwarf.”

He chortled and raised a large tankard of ale. Some sloshed over and hit him in the face, drawing laughter from everyone around. Even Velanna laughed.

“So what’re y’waitin’ for?” Oghren demanded, pointing his tankard dangerously towards me. I wrinkled my nose, but none of the ale splashed on me, at least. “C’mon, boy! Let’s soddin’ hear it!”

I shook my head in amusement, a real, if bittersweet, smile pulled onto my face. “Alright, alright. How pushy.” He guffawed, and I contemplated briefly which song would be appropriate. It didn’t take long. “Well. You ready?”

“You want a written invitation, Vee?” Castor called from a few seats over. “’Cause I can arrange that.

Rolling my eyes, I ignored his taunt, and took a deep breath. “ _Of all the money that ere I had, I spent it in good company…_ ”

 

I left before dawn. I gathered my things—I barely filled a single rucksack—and donned my armor. Castor gave me a new traveling cloak, one with the Grey Wardens’ insignia, as well as one of the bedrolls, some food, and a small pouch of money. Nathaniel was allowed to accompany me as far as the docks. He didn’t accept anything less, though I thought it would make leaving only harder.

The only thing that wasn’t mine which I insisted upon bringing was not a thing at all. Anders had left Ser Pounce-a-Lot in Neria’s care while on this mission. He’d been dissuaded from bringing the cat on any missions sometime at the beginning by Seneschal Varel, but Neria had allowed Anders to at least keep the cat at Vigil’s Keep.

And I couldn’t stand the thought of leaving poor Ser Pounce-a-Lot to wonder where Anders had gone, and why he wasn’t coming back. The orange tabby seemed to like me, even if he was generally suspicious of Littlefoot, and he came rather willingly when I mentioned Anders’ name.

I didn’t know if that meant he was a smart cat or not.

I held him carefully in a second bag, one hastily modified so I could carry the cat without sacrificing use of my arms. He purred against my chest for the first thirty minutes.

Neither Nathaniel nor I said a single word on the horse ride to the city. Dawn was breaking; little fingers of light poked from over the horizon to light the sky. I tried not to resent the cheerful birds as they sang their morning-songs. It was a time of mourning for me, but just that time of morning for them. What a difference a single letter makes.

Amaranthine was still mostly sleepy. A few merchants were setting up their wares, and the fishermen had long gone out to sea, but mostly there was quiet. No one paid us much mind. Grey Wardens weren’t much of an anomaly anymore.

We found the ship Castor had named with ease. He’d sent a messenger the day before, and while the captain didn’t seem exactly eager, he didn’t complain, either. He just nodded, not even raising a fuss about Littlefoot or Ser Pounce-a-Lot.

I stood beside the ship, and took in its splendor in the orange early-morning light. I hated it, because it would take me away.

But I had to go.

I didn’t kiss Nathaniel goodbye. Maybe I should have, but at the time, it was too painful to consider. It would feel too much like a promise, like I was going to return. I wasn’t. I couldn’t. So I didn’t.

“Goodbye, Nate,” I said, quietly.

“Goodbye, Vir’era,” he returned, voice just as soft.

“May the Dread Wolf never catch your scent.” And I turned and boarded the ship, and I didn’t look back until the bridge was gone and I was stuck.

He was already gone.

 

_Dear Mia,_

_By the time you get this letter, I’ll be on my way to Kirkwall. Maybe I’ll already be there._

_I don’t know where I’ll stay, but once I’ve found out, I’ll send you another letter. I’ll check on Cullen for you, too, since I’ll be there._

_Sorry this isn’t longer. I have to get ready._

_Vir’era Sabrae, 9:31 Dragon_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [the parting glass](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3hMdoGet2A8)   
>  [anders short story](http://na.llnet.bioware.cdn.ea.com/u/f/eagames/bioware/dragonage2/assets/content/world/short_stories/anders.pdf)
> 
> \--
> 
> so here we are. end of the line for the origins part of the story. if you're not familiar with the details on what happened between anders leaving the grey wardens & fleeing to kirkwall, as i've referenced here, i recommend reading the anders short story i've linked just above (as it is, by the way, entirely canon).
> 
> this is a shorter update, and counts more as an epilogue than a real chapter, but it was more emotionally heavy for me. not sure how well i conveyed it, but i tried. let me know what works and what doesn't, if you don't mind. i really do want to know; writing this isn't just for fun (though mostly it is), but also as a learning opportunity for me as an author.
> 
> as of right now, i do plan on posting the next part in the series starting next week, with no hiatus. it'll be titled 'Kirkwall.' that said, as i mentioned a few weeks back, i will be in south africa with family for a couple weeks later this month and may or may not be able to update while there. i'm not sure what my internet capability will be like, as i know a good portion of that side of the family simply doesn't have internet in their homes, and internet is priced differently than here anyways. i promise that if i can update at all, even if it's not on a friday, i will put up at least one chapter. if not, i apologize in advance, and i'll figure out some way to make it up to you when i return.
> 
> thanks for reading! i hope you all have a wonderful day, and i'll see you next week with Kirkwall!


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